


What Happens in the Off Season

by meevees



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Superboy (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Getting Together, Hockey, M/M, a mix of DC characters and setting and real references to the NHL, it's mostly explained in layman's terms, there is gratuitous hockey talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-11-05 14:39:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17920748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meevees/pseuds/meevees
Summary: Tim is the odd person out in his family of hockey fanatics, a difference which is only intensified when Bruce acquires ownership of the Gotham Blades NHL organization. Maybe the team's handsome new rookie will be able to help him come around. [Hockey AU]





	1. Off Season

 

> **Gotham Blades Under New Ownership**
> 
> In a deal finalized last night, Bruce Wayne, philanthropist and CEO of Wayne Enterprises, has acquired ownership of the Gotham Blades hockey organization. Wayne has been rumored to be in talks with the organization for weeks, and the shake up is not an unexpected one; the conclusion of the recent NHL regular season marked the seventh in a row that the team failed to qualify for the playoffs, and the second that they ended their season as the last seed in the Eastern Conference.
> 
> Bruce Wayne and his family are notable fans of the franchise, and have been long time season ticket holders. At a press conference following the purchase Wayne expressed a desire to bring the team out of their slump, and an intention to make big changes to do so. He already acted on those words, immediately hiring Lucius Fox, a long time business partner, as the team’s new general manager.

 

Tim scrolled idly through the Gotham Gazette article on his phone while he ate his breakfast. It contained no information he didn’t already know, of course, but he was interested to observe how the media was reacting to Bruce’s latest business venture. While this particular article was primarily factual in nature, other reports had run the gamut in their responses from optimism at seeing the team taken in a new direction after being allowed to remain stagnant for so long, to concern that Bruce didn’t have the time to properly dedicate to the franchise’s success, to criticism that he was showing favoritism by hiring Lucius Fox.

“Man, if Bruce was going to buy a hockey team, he could have at least not picked a shitty one.” Jason complained, collapsing lazily into the chair adjacent to Tim’s at the breakfast table. His eyes were on the television which, while muted, through the news ticker revealed that SportsCenter was also discussing Bruce and the Gotham Blades.

“The point is to make them good again,” Dick reminded placidly, “They’ve got the next few months to really plan for free agency, and for the draft.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, they should go for Harper, his contract’s up this year.”

“I’m sure he’s on their radar, but he’s probably on everyone else’s too.”

And that marked the extent of Tim’s ability to follow the conversation. The Gotham Gazette had certainly not been wrong in identifying his family as hockey fanatics, although Tim was the oddball in that regard. The only sport he’d ever really taken any interest in was gymnastics, which had earned him plenty of flack from Jason along the way. He’d attend the games with them on occasion, but usually ended up zoned out or on his phone by the second period. It just wasn’t his thing.

He supposed he’d better start trying to grow on it sincerely now.

* * *

Tim had never been to Dallas before, and he certainly would never have guessed that hockey would be the thing to bring him there. Did people in Texas actually play hockey? Obviously they must, although it was hard for Tim to believe that it was terribly popular here. Maybe he would meet some kindred spirits in ambivalence towards the sport.

In the two and a half months or so since Bruce had acquired the Gotham Blades the hockey talk around Wayne Manor must have quadrupled, and the Blades hadn’t even been playing. Much of it had been leading up to this day and its main event, the NHL entry draft, which was why Tim had been spirited all the way to Dallas with the rest of his family.

And in all honesty? It was hard for Tim not to feel a little excited about it, when he saw his brothers _so excited_ about it. This was something they normally only got to watch on television, although in a sense Tim supposed that hadn’t exactly changed. Despite being at the arena where the draft was taking place they were all in a private room watching the proceedings on a television screen rather than among the audience. Still, his whole family was abuzz, eager both at the prospect of being here and at seeing how _their team_ would fair in the draft, and Tim had to admit it was contagious.

Apparently draft standings were the primary benefit to being one of the worst teams in the entire league, and their mediocre performance had earned the Blades the third overall pick in the draft. For weeks Dick and Jason had been debating the various prospects they felt the team should choose, while Tim busied himself on his phone or with his school work rather than admit he had no ability to follow their conversation.

But now that the fated day had arrived it was not Dick or Jason, but Lucius Fox to whom the decision was ultimately left. He was down on the floor strategizing, making deals, and in not too long would be announcing which player the Gotham Blades chose to draft first. Bruce had been on and off the phone with him about it all day, even as Buffalo took the podium to announce their choice for first pick overall. More interested in what Bruce was up to, Tim watched him and couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t seem thrilled with the results of that last phone conversation, a sour expression briefly crossing his face.

“Too bad, but it is what it is. We still want him, I’d say. Talk to you soon. Thanks.”

Tim wished he had any chance of interpreting what might have just occurred between Bruce and Lucius, but he was clueless. Just as Bruce got off the phone the first pick was announced, and everyone seemed to agree that it went exactly as they expected.

The second picked similarly met everyone’s expectations.

All eyes were on Gotham now. As Lucius Fox made his way up to the podium, the commentators made their predictions about who he was likely to choose. Dick and Jason seemed to have given up their speculating in favor of watching raptly. Bruce wore an unreadable expression on his face, obviously aware of what was about to happen and seemingly unwilling to let them in on the plan even seconds before it came to fruition.

Lucius Fox had taken the microphone. He gave his greeting and his words of thanks, and then, “With the third pick, the Gotham Blades select Conner Kent from Metropolis University.”

The cameras cut to who must be Conner Kent sitting in the stands. He looked shocked, and spent a few seconds looking bemusedly between the people on either side of him rather than getting up to go to the stage. A little boy sitting immediately next to him gave him a playful shove and that seemed to snap him back to reality; he stood up and began excitedly hugging his family.

Tim’s family was having a similar reaction. Jason let out an incredulous “what,” while Dick seemed to be considering the choice thoughtfully. Tim couldn’t fully appreciate the level of confusion that was happening around him, but he had a pretty strong impression of what was happening; he’d heard his brothers discuss a lot of names in the days leading up to this moment, and none of them had been Conner Kent. No one, not even the player himself if the look on his face had been anything to go by, had expected him to go so soon.

Bruce had launched into a very calculated explanation of the decision, something about going in a different direction than the analysts had predicted--to which Jason had snorted and replied, “Yeah, a _bad_ direction.” But Tim wasn’t really listening anymore. His attention was back on the screen in front of him.

Conner Kent had reached the stage and was shaking Lucius Fox’s hand. He pulled on his new Gotham Blades jersey and ball cap, and clearly he had recovered from his initial surprise because when they posed for photos to be taken he wasn’t just smiling out at the cameras, he was absolutely beaming. Tim didn’t have a single clue about Conner’s credentials as a hockey player, but _damn_ , he was certainly handsome enough. Too handsome. The sort of handsome that it was actually unfair for human beings to be.

He looked familiar, too, but no matter how much he racked his brain Tim couldn’t quite figure out why.

Out of his entire family, Dick had always been best at noticing when Tim was lost in his own head. He must have noticed Tim drifting away now, because he lightly bumped their shoulders together. “Looks like it’s going to be an interesting year, doesn’t it little bro?”

“Huh?” Tim’s mouth supplied helpfully, the rest of him still not fully back in their private viewing room. Steadily he became aware of Dick smiling beside him, and of Jason still trying to argue with Bruce in the background, although that was little more than white noise. Once his brain had a chance to catch up with the attempted conversation he added, “Oh. Yeah.”

It was easy to agree to. Because if nothing else, the introduction of Conner Kent had just made this situation _much_ more interesting for Tim.

* * *

That had all gone down just after noon, and the day had stretched on from there. There’d been several more rounds of drafting, and then press conferences: for Bruce, for Lucius, for the coaches, and even for Conner. He wasn’t the most eloquent speaker, but Tim was impressed with the way he composed himself in an interview, even when some of the questions were downright unfavorable. For the most part he came across confident, genial, and earnest.

He also had a _great_ smile, which at least helped a lot in Tim’s book.

Now it was well into the night, and they were all at an after party. Tim didn’t think he’d ever felt so relieved to be back in his own element. It wasn’t necessarily that he even liked parties very much (he didn’t), but Tim _knew_ how to comport himself here, was maybe even an expert at it. It was the polar opposite of being in the hockey world, where everyone seemed to know better than him, and he was never sure what to do or say. For the first time all day, even as he put on the public mask of Tim Drake-Wayne and prepared to play his part for the next few hours, Tim finally felt like he could just _breathe_.

He stepped out of the restroom and immediately noticed Damian sitting in the corner, playing his Nintendo Switch with . . . wasn’t that Conner Kent’s little brother? It was the boy who’d been sitting next to him at the draft, at any rate, and the family resemblance was strong enough that it was easy to assume they were brothers. It was kind of surprising, since Damian usually took a while to warm up to new people, even other kids, but the two of them were playing together easily looking for all the world like they were old chums.

It was actually kind of cute, until Damian began furiously mashing buttons and yelled, “Die, assholes!” at whatever game he was playing.

“I’m telling Bruce you said that.” Tim called out to him casually as he walked by. Damian just flipped him the bird, not even looking up from the screen.

“I’m telling him about that, too.” Tim added. He seriously considered making good on the threat for a moment, too, but being that petty toward an eleven year old was definitely not the cool thing to do.

As Tim reentered the main hall where the party was taking place, Bruce was the next member of his family he spotted. He was standing a little off to the side, talking to his friend Clark Kent. Clark was from Metropolis, but he was a pretty renowned journalist and he’d covered a lot of charity events and other work that Bruce had done along the way, which was how they knew each other. He definitely wasn’t a sports journalist though, so it was a little odd that he would have traveled all the way across the country just to cover the NHL entry draft. He also didn’t appear to be wearing a press badge.

It was then as he was watching Bruce and Clark Kent from partway across the room that all of the puzzle pieces finally clicked into place for Tim. Why Clark would be here. Why Damian was already so friendly with the boy who was definitely Conner Kent’s little brother. Why Conner had looked so familiar.

He felt foolish for no having figured it out sooner. But to come to his own defense, Kent wasn’t exactly an uncommon last name. And it wasn’t as if Tim saw Clark all of the time, more like maybe once or twice a year, and usually only in passing. In getting a good look at him now, though, it was impossible to miss the similarities . . . Conner Kent was a dead ringer for his his father.

Conner Kent was Clark Kent’s son. Bruce had chosen an underdog player at the draft today, over a number of players who were apparently statistically much better than he was, and he was the son of one of Bruce’s close friends. Oh boy, the media was going to have a field day with that.

“Aw, look at our dads, getting along so well. Doesn’t it make you so proud?”

Tim nearly jumped out of his skin when the voice suddenly pulled him out of his thoughts. Speak of the devil (or think about him) and he shall appear; Tim looked to his left to find that Conner Kent had come to stand beside him. He had removed the jersey he’d been given at the draft in favor of his shirt and tie, but he was still wearing his new Gotham Blades ballcap. He had his arms folded in front of his chest and his sleeves, which he’d rolled up to his elbows, looked like they were straining with the effort of keeping his biceps contained. He was smiling, oh god he wasn’t just smiling but smiling _at Tim_ , and from this close Tim could see that he had dimples.

It was already embarrassing enough that he’d been caught seemingly staring at Clark, and now he really was staring at Conner, who had said something to him and therefore was waiting for a response. So he _really_ needed to say something, before he made an ass of himself to a degree he would never be able to recover from, but the only words he managed to force out of his mouth in that moment were, “How do you know Bruce is my dad?”

Conner laughed, and yeah he was probably laughing _at Tim_ , but it was such a friendly and disarming sound that it was hard to get defensive about it. Plus, his eyes crinkled at the corner a little when he laughed, and god was it even possible for someone to have eyes that were that blue?

“Oh man, I uh, I hate to be the one to break this to you but,” Conner began, then he leaned in closer to Tim, cupped his left hand in front of his mouth and finished his sentence in a faux-whisper, “You guys are like, kinda famous.”

Tim knew that, obviously. He’d known it was a stupid question, although apparently knowing something was stupid wasn’t enough to stop him from doing it in the face of Conner Kent, and his sky blue eyes, and his _arms_.

Blessedly, Conner seemed to realize that Tim wasn’t ready to respond this time, because he continued without waiting. “Anyway, I realize we both probably already know, but it feels too rude not to introduce myself so--Hi. I’m Conner Kent.”

He held out his hand. Tim took it, and couldn’t even find it in himself to be impressed when Conner had the firmest handshake of all time, because of course he did. “Tim Drake,” and then, because he was pretty sure it was the thing he was supposed to be saying to Conner today, he added, “Congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Conner replied almost giddily, as if he was relieved to finally be able to talk about it candidly, “It’s pretty incredible. I mean, I knew I was probably going to get picked in the first round, you know? But third overall? I did not see that coming.”

“I noticed.” Tim said, then winced, because that also had been a completely stupid thing to say.

But Conner just laughed again, a little more sheepishly this time. “Yeah, I like to pretend like I’m good at playing it cool, but I’m so not.”

It wasn’t fair. People weren’t supposed to be able to catch Tim off guard like this. Tim wasn’t supposed to _let_ them catch him off guard like this. It made him anxious, and a little annoyed, which was completely irrational because Conner was only trying to be nice. Tim had been nothing but awkward, and honestly a little mean, and still Conner was being so nice.

And maybe that was the problem, that Conner was just being nice, when Tim could only admit he wished there was something more going on here. Tim had trained himself against that sort of wishful thinking a long time ago, especially when it came to people who were categorically unattainable, but here came Conner Kent, crashing through his defenses like they were made of paper mache.

“I thought you played it pretty cool in front of the reporters.” Tim offered, both because he felt like he owed Conner the encouragement and because he sincerely meant it.

That got a different sort of laugh out of Conner, “No choice then, right? I’ve been getting intensive ‘be cool in front of reporters’ training since I was like fifteen. That’s pretty much a no brainer at this point.”

That was some unexpected common ground for them to stand on. Though Conner looked like he was maybe less comfortable with it than Tim was. There would be no escaping the press in his future, though; he was sure to be dealing with them all the more in his transition from college athlete to professional athlete.

They were interrupted from discussing it any further by the arrival of Clark and Bruce to their conversation. Clark clapped a hand on Conner’s shoulder. “Nice to see you two hitting it off.”

He wore a knowing sort of smile as he said it, one Tim couldn’t help feel had some sort of hidden meaning behind it, not that he could guess what. And Conner had turn his head away just enough that he could roll his eyes in response without being noticed.

Clark seemed aware that Conner did not intend to dignify his comment with a response, so he continued, “You haven’t seen Jonathan around anywhere, have you?”

Conner shook his head ‘no.’ Since it was easy enough to assume who Jonathan was at this point, Tim answered, “He’s over in that alcove playing Nintendo with Damian.”

Bruce arched an eyebrow at the revelation that Damian was also hiding in a corner playing video games and, petty or not, Tim could only admit he got a bit of satisfaction out of it.

“Thanks, Tim.” Clark replied genuinely. He headed off to find his younger son, but not before taking a moment to give a very pointed look in the direction of Conner’s rolled up sleeves.

Conner began to slowly unroll a sleeve in response, but only until Clark had walked away, at which point he rolled it right back up again. He caught Tim grinning at him, “What? It’s just going to look all wrinkled now anyway. Besides, compared to you and your tux I’m gunna look under-dressed no matter what, so what’s the point?”

This was not even close to the fanciest tux Tim owned, incidentally, but he would spare Conner that knowledge. Bruce caught his eye and offered a grin of his own about it.

Clark returned to them with a sleeping Jonathan in one arm, partially draped over his shoulders. Jonathan had attempted to loosen the tie he was wearing, and while he’d succeeded he’d also made a mess of it in the process. Apparently the aversion to properly worn formal attire was a familial trait. “Your oldest has Damian,” Clark told Bruce, “they had both fallen asleep. It was pretty adorable.”

“I hope you took pictures. That will make great blackmail when they’re teenagers.” Bruce replied, grinning.

Clark proudly held up his cell phone with his free hand, winking, then replaced it in his pocket. “This is our cue to take off, though. You want to come with now, or are you going to hang out for a while?”

The question had clearly been directed at Conner, who nodded, “I’ll come. I’m right behind you, okay?”

Clark nodded and walked off. Bruce said something about checking on Damian and was on his way as well.

Conner smiled, “I swear, those two are like the weirdest friends ever.”

“Bruce and Clark?” Tim asked.

The smile widen, “I was talking about the kids but honestly? Them too.”

“Oh. Right.” Well that was embarrassing. Both because obviously Conner had been talking about their little brothers, and because Tim hadn’t even known Jonathan existed before today, but apparently the fact that he was friends with Damian was old news to Conner. “I think any time Damian actually manages to make a friend it’s guaranteed to be weird. Also, I’m pretty sure he was teaching your brother some pretty colorful new vocabulary words over there so, sorry about that.”

“Oh no worries, Jon knows better.” Conner replied, and then, as if it explained everything, added, “They have a swear jar.”

Conner’s choice of the word ‘they’ instead of ‘we’ was curious. Maybe it was because he mostly lived in the dorms on campus now instead of at home with the rest of his family. But something about the way he said it, and about the way Conner and Clark had interacted, told Tim there was probably more to it than that. Now was probably not the time to analyze it though. Instead he simply said, “Of course they do.”

Conner must have appreciated that response, because he smiled and showed off his perfect dimples again.

There was an awkward lull in the conversation for a moment, and Conner’s demeanor shifted to match it. Tim wasn’t sure what to say, and Conner looked like he was running through a lot of possibilities, unsure which to settle on. Eventually he spoke again, “Well I gotta go catch up with my dad, but looks like I’m going to be spending a lot of time in Gotham, obviously, and uh, I don’t really know anybody around there . . .so I was thinking maybe I could get your number? And we could hang out sometime? Or something.”

Tim wasn’t sure what was more shocking, the fact that Conner had asked for his number, or the fact that he seemed so nervous about it, as if Tim would ever actually say ‘no.’ He had to take a deep breath and remind himself that of course Conner was nervous, because he was moving to a new town and worried about not having any friends, and that he was setting up for a huge disappointment if he allowed himself to read anymore into it than what it obviously was. He still couldn’t help but feel a little nervous and excited in return, “Really? Yeah. Sure.”

“Yeah? Cool.” Conner handed Tim his phone and Tim typed in his number before handing it back.

The silence this time was somehow even more awkward, and once again Conner proved the one who couldn’t help but break it, “Okay, I really gotta go ‘cause they’re probably waiting now, but it was really cool meeting you. Uh, talk to you soon, hopefully.”

“Yeah, you too.” Tim replied lamely, as Conner Kent gave him one last show stopping smile, and dashed off to find his family.

Later that night, when they had settled into their hotel room, Dick sat down next to him on his bed and asked, “Hey, did you have a good time tonight?”

Almost on cue Tim’s cell phone buzzed, alerting him to a new unread text message. It was from an unknown number with a Metropolis area code, and it contained three emojis: a hockey stick, a smiley face wearing sunglasses, and a thumbs up.

Tim tried to mask his expression, not wanting to give himself away to his older brother, who always seemed to notice every little quirk of emotion on his face, but he couldn’t help but smile, “Yeah, actually, I did.”

* * *

“Why can’t you just admit that it was a stupid move?”

“Because I don’t think it was stupid. More of a high risk, high reward type of deal, in my opinion.”

Tim sighed. If he’d been hoping that a day of further draft happening and a night of drinking and being merry would have quelled the Conner Kent drama amongst his family, he’d been very wrong. His brothers were still at this morning. Or more accurately, Jason was still at it, and Dick was doing his best to subdue him.

Jason scoffed, “Really? So what’s the reward, a mediocre rookie who spends most of the season in the minor league?”

“I’m thinking it’s a dependable rookie who can play both ends of the ice and is much more ready for the intensity of the NHL than those hyper-offensive kids are going to be.”

“That’s bullshit. How does that compensate for the fact that we passed up a kid who put up _forty goals_ last year?”

Dick was undeterred, “Lots of kids are able to score forty goals in the juniors, very few of them turn that into big success when they go pro. And Conner Kent was second in plus/minus in the NCAA last year.”

“Come one, who actually gives a shit about plus/minus? It’s the most pointless stat. Here’s another one for you, bro: Kent also led his team in penalty minutes last year. What d’you think is gunna happen when he gets frustrated that he can’t keep up playing with the big boys? Stupid plays, that’s what.”

“He was also one of the players that drew the most penalties in the league.” That statement earned a huge groan from Jason, and Dick quickly continued on without giving him room for a rebuttal, “He also scored a lot of points, he just didn’t get the most points. And he was easily the best player on his team, and the most statistically significant, even as he spent more time in the penalty box than the rest of them.”

Tim’s head was spinning just trying to follow the conversation. If he was honest with himself it was all completely over his head, but most of the things they were mentioning he could at least make an inference about what they might mean. One detail, however, stuck out as particularly curious, “What does that mean? Drawing penalties?”

Dick and Jason both looked surprised that he was even listening, which was probably fair. Normally he really wouldn’t be, but the fact that they were talking about Conner got him more interested in their conversation. Jason looked about ready to make him regret asking, but Dick jumped in before he had the chance, “Most of the time when you get a penalty in hockey it’s because you did something to another player like trip them, or shove them into the boards, or hit them with your stick. In that case the person who draws the penalty would be the one you tripped, or shoved, or hit with your stick. When that happens to the same player a lot, it’s usually because they’re making it happen. They get under players' skin, in their faces, aggravate them, which makes them make stupid plays, and take stupid penalties.”

So getting under people’s skin and making them act stupid was Conner’s thing. That made Tim feel better about the night before, although he’d almost certainly not been doing it on purpose where Tim was concerned.

Still Jason looked like he really had something to say, and he was about to, but Dick raised a hand to stop him so he could finish, “It’s admittedly a pseudo-stat,” and that statement seemed to immediately placate Jason, who must have been looking to criticize exactly that, “Sort of one of those things nobody actually pays attention to unless a player is notable at it. It’s insignificant on its own, but every piece of information is important when you’re looking at the picture of the player as a whole. And so, being an agitator is an important piece to keep in mind when considering Conner Kent, the hockey player.”

“Yeah,” Jason added flippantly, “‘Cause he’s a goon.”

“Okay, first of all, no he’s not. Second of all, you act like that’s not normally the sort of player you like. You loved it when that guy from Boston was licking people during the playoffs.”

“Uh yeah, ‘cause that was fuckin’ funny.”

Tim wrinkled his nose, “Does that mean Conner _licks_ people?”

Jason cackled. Dick sighed and shook his head ‘no.’

“So what do you think, Timmy?” Jason asked with a sly grin.

“About what?”

“About the Conner Kent pick. Yea or nay?”

The question was a trap. Specifically, it was a trap designed to trick Tim into admitting that of course he was in favor of the Blades drafting Conner Kent, because Conner Kent was hot. And sure, that was a little bit true, not that Tim was going to admit it out loud. The bigger truth was, whether he said yes or no, Tim wouldn’t have any facts to back up his opinion, because this was a topic about which he simply did not know the facts.

It was frustrating, but he wasn’t falling for it today. “I think the data can clearly be used to support whatever opinion you want depending on how you interpret it, so you’re better off not arguing about it and waiting to see how he actually does.”

Dick looked pretty proud of him for coming up with that rebuttal. Jason deflated, not having gotten the rise of Tim that he wanted today, but even he gave a conciliatory nod.

He may have managed to dodge that bullet, but Tim was now properly tired of being the ignorant one. He hated being the only one who didn’t know what was going on or being talked about, hated not knowing things in general. When it came to hockey he’d always been able to brush it off because it was his family’s hobby, just not his. But now that hockey was a permanent fixture in their lives (now that Conner Kent was a fixture in his life, the hopeful part of his brain supplied), he wasn’t going to put up with not knowing anymore. He was going to learn.

As Dick and Jason moved on to a new topic of conversation, Tim pulled out his phone. He had a lot to learn, namely everything about the sport of hockey, but given that he was the topic that had set this plan in motion, Tim figured he’d start with what the internet had to say about Conner Kent, and the Gotham Blades’ decision to draft him so early.

 

 

> **The New Pride of the Gotham Blades**
> 
> Metropolis University prospect Conner Kent was the talk of the NHL entry draft yesterday, after he was unexpectedly drafted third overall by the Gotham Blades. Prior to the draft most analyst ranked Kent 18th among the year's prospects, and there was widespread speculation that he would go to the Metropolis Mammoths, who had the 16th pick and may have favored him as a hometown player.
> 
> This is not the first time that Kent has made waves in the hockey community. Just last year he caused a stir at Metropolis University when he came out as bisexual as part of a pride event on campus. Last night he made history as the first openly bisexual player to be drafted into the NHL.
> 
>  

Tim reread the article several times, his original purpose for doing so completely forgotten. The knowledge it provided him seemed surreal, like surely it was a fault of his reading comprehension, and the next time he read it would reveal he was mistaken.

_Conner Kent is bisexual_. His brain finally registered after what must have been the fifth read.

“Conner Kent is bisexual,” his mouth blurted treacherously, before he could stop himself. And then, as if everyone present wasn’t fully aware of the implications therein, and as if he wasn’t absolutely making the situation worse for himself by doing so, he added, “he’s _into guys_.”

Suddenly every detail of their interactions the night before was replaying in Tim’s head. He’d thought Conner was just being friendly but could he actually have been flirting? He’d laughed at several things Tim had said that definitely weren’t that funny. And the knowing look on Clark’s face when he’d seen the two of them talking together certainly made more sense in this context. But Conner had seemed annoyed by Clark’s reaction . . .

At this point, Jason was laughing so hard he had to put his head down on the table. Dick was giving him a look that was an odd mix of pleased and sympathetic. It was Dick’s expression that clued Tim in.

“Oh my god, you both knew didn’t you? Why didn’t you say anything to me before?!”

Jason responded first, “And miss out on you having a complete aneurysm about it now? Sorry, but that was way too good to pass up.”

Dick rolled his eyes at that, “Tim, I’m looking at you right now and I can see the gears turning in your head, analyzing everything he said to you. Imagine if you’d been doing that while he was talking. I figured it would be nice for you at least to have a chance to get to know him without having to worry about it so much.”

Dick was not wrong; Tim would probably have acted even weirder in front of Conner if he’d known then what he knew now. But he couldn’t help it; analyzing things was what he did. Usually he considered a strength, though he was aware people sometimes found it off putting.

It wasn’t doing him much good now, anyway. There wasn’t much evidence to clearly suggest that Conner had been flirting or not. It all could have easily gone either way. Except, of course . . .

“He asked for my number.” Tim revealed to his brothers.

Well that’s a good start,” Dick smiled, “You gave it to him, right?”

“Of course I did!”

“Did he text you yet?”

Tim nodded.

That was obviously not a satisfactory answer in Dick’s book, “And? What did he say?”

Under different circumstances Tim might have pointed out that Dick was definitely prying at this point, but it wasn’t like Conner’s text had been all that personal. Sure, it had made Tim a little giddy when he’d received it, but that was a lot more due to the fact that he was embarrassingly into Conner at this point than anything to do with the message’s contents, “Nothing much. It was just a couple of emojis.”

Once again Dick waited for Tim to elaborate, and once again he was instead left dragging it out of him, “So, what did you say.”

“I. . . didn’t.” Tim replied.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t text him back. It was just a random message so that I would have his number to add to my contacts.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just ignore him!”

Tim could feel a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might have made a social blunder until now, but now he was worried that he might have really messed up, “It was just emojis. How was I supposed to respond to that?”

“With more emojis, generally.” Dick said as if it were obvious. Of course, for a social butterfly like Dick, it probably was.

Jason was grinning like the cat that caught the canary, “Damn, kid. You chatted him up all night, then you left him on read. I didn’t know you had it in you to be that savage. I’m impressed.”

“Yeah, savage is definitely _not_ what I was going for.” Tim replied, horrified.

“No, this is good. Play a little hard to get. It’ll work out for you in the long run.”

The look on Dick’s face suggested he did not agree with that advice, but he just replaced it with a smile and said, “Either way, I’m sure you and Conner will work it out.”

* * *

Tim generally trusted Dick’s advice over Jason’s when it came to people problems (really, Tim trusted Dick’s advice over Jason’s when it came to just about everything), and he really had intended to text Conner back. At first he hadn’t known what to say and must have composed at least a dozen messages that he second guessed and refused to click send on. Then, the longer he went without sending Conner anything the guiltier he felt about it, and the harder it got to come up with the right thing to say. In the end, without intending to, he’d followed Jason’s methodology and never sent anything at all.

About a week after the draft came July, and with it free agency. This, Tim learned, meant that many players’ contracts expired and they were therefore free to sign on to new teams. Roy Harper, the player who Jason--and pretty much everyone else in the hockey community, from what Tim could gather--had been talking about, ended up signing with Star City. Gotham had managed to talk with Harper, although they hadn’t closed the deal in the end. Tim partially blamed Bruce’s choice to send _Jason_ to make him feel welcome and show him around while he’d been in town, although Jason was confident that he had been very convincing. When Harper had ultimately not taken their offer everyone was disappointed, but Jason had taken it personally. He was angry. Dick had just shrugged his shoulders and said, “At least he’s not in our conference anymore.”

The media more or less crucified Bruce and Lucius for their failure to close the deal with Roy Harper. The closest to a positive article on the subject Time could find had reported that it wasn’t management’s fault because of course Harper was going to sign with Star City over Gotham, because Star City actually won hockey games.

That logic was actually a little hard to argue with, in Tim’s opinion.

Still, the news wasn’t all bad. Gotham had missed out on the superstar, but they made a lot of not-quite-as-big moves in those early days of July, including picking up a speedy young player named Bart Allen. Where the media was perhaps less forgiving the fanbase was thrilled; Gotham had spent the last few years doing very little when it came to free agents and trade deadlines, apparently, and people were happy to see them properly back in the mix again. Merchandise sales had even creep up a little, despite it being the off season.

Conner Kent also remained a hot topic in Gotham. Depending on who you asked, media and fans alike, he was either proof that they were committed to thinking outside of the box and building a balanced, competitive team, or proof alongside the Roy Harper debacle that Bruce was trying to sabotage the team and sell it up the river. Tim hoped Conner didn’t read many of the reports about himself; at their worst they could be absolutely scathing. They were also largely unfair. Tim had been following through on his decision to do research and he felt it had proven Dick correct--the number’s didn’t paint Conner as the best in any particular area, but he was an all around _great_ hockey player.

He was also someone Tim still _really needed_ to text back.

Tim thought it would be better to just talk to Conner about it in person, but that plan had turned out to be a bust as well.

“Unless you’re planning on taking a road trip,” Dick explained, “Training camp doesn’t start until September, and he’s probably not planning to come to Gotham until then.”

“September?” Tim had repeated incredulously. And then, in a true Captain Obvious moment, “But that’s two months from now.”

Even Jason would probably tell him that two months was definitely too long to leave Conner hanging. He had to say something. But he still just didn’t know what to say. Tim considered using all of the recently hockey news as a conversation starter, as Conner was bound to have been following and to have an opinion about it all. But was it rude to ask him about his future teammates like that? Tim wasn’t sure, but he was sure that while he’d learn a lot in the last week or so he still had a lot more to learn, so he was definitely going to end up looking like an idiot if he tried to talk hockey with Conner.

And that was how he’d chickened out yet again.

After a few more days Tim had resigned himself to the fact that he had screwed things up royally with Conner. It wasn’t the first time his deficient social skills had failed him, but it definitely felt like the most disappointing.

Which is why it came as such a surprise when, about a week into September, as Tim was working on his first paper of the semester, his cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Conner.

_See u tom?_

Tim stared at the text message in mild disbelief. The question itself wasn’t a challenge to interpret: tomorrow was the first day of training camp, and Conner was wondering if Tim would be there. The fact that Conner would care about seeing Tim after two and a half months of silence though, that was a little mystifying.

Of course, Tim did plan on attending training camp with his family tomorrow. He also intended on bringing his laptop and mostly getting schoolwork done while he was there, but maybe he would have to alter his plans somewhat.

Regardless of how tomorrow may play out, though, tonight he had a second chance to not ignore Conner’s message, which he was not about to pass up. So he sent a quick _Yes_ . Then, feeling that was too brief, also sent _Good luck, by the way._ Then, because he apparently was physically incapable of not second guessing everything he ever said to Conner Kent, he sent one final message: _This is the sort of situation where it’s appropriate to wish you luck, right?_

At first all Conner responded was _lol_ , which was supremely unhelpful both as a reply to Tim’s messages and in assuaging his social anxiety. But there were three dots indicating he was still typing, so Tim waited until he added _hopin I dont need luck_ with an arm flexing emoji. Tim just had time to roll his eyes at that as Conner sent a final message, _but ya thanks._

That one was followed by the sunglasses emoji, which was looking like a favorite of Conner’s. Tim smiled.

He sent a final message telling Conner he was looking forward to seeing him again, Conner responded in kind, and that was that. It had all taken about three minutes, and it had been so easy that Tim felt foolish for spending so long making such a big deal out of it.

Of course, that had been the easy part. Tomorrow he was going to have to actually talk to Conner Kent again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never actually read a comic with Jon Kent in it, he's minimal here but if I still managed to do it wrong please forgive me.
> 
> I regret leaving Cass out of the batfam, but there really wasn't a role for her in this story :(. Also I'm trying to keep things as true to the actual NHL as possible except for where the DC characters or locations come into play, but I felt weird about name dropping real people which is why there's a lot of references to "the kids" during the draft, or "that player," etc. Not sure if I like how I did it, but for now it's how I did it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Preseason

Training camp was a lot more bustling that Tim had expected. He’d known it was open to the public but hadn’t known how many people would be interested in watching what appeared to be just a very extended practice; the answer was, apparently, a lot. The press particularly were there in droves. Conner had attempted to skate in his direction before training actually started, but the reporters were flocking to any players who got close enough to the boards to get their attention, and he had been intercepted. Still even more people with press badges were sitting in the stands, furiously taking down notes and observations. 

Clark Kent was there, once again having left his press badge at home, which Tim thought was nice. He’d also brought Jonathan, which Damian seemed pretty pleased about. The two of them were off doing whatever it was eleven year olds did. Tim didn’t know what that might be, and didn’t think he wanted to, but it definitely didn’t seem to involve paying any attention to the practice taking place.

Tim found he actually really enjoyed watching the team practice. Having been reading up on hockey he could see the connection between the drills they were running and the skills they were practicing whether it was shots, passes, skating, or puck handling. It was fascinating to observe the level of technical skill behind it all, and to see where different players’ strengths and weaknesses lay.

Conner was also a sight to behold through it all. He made skating look as natural as walking, maybe even more so. And while Tim would never have bothered him by trying to capture his attention while he was working, he suspected he wouldn’t have been able to anyway. Conner was hyper-focused, his intensity level (really all of their intensity levels) almost palpable, even as they were doing what had to be very rote and menial tasks for them. But even more so Conner looked like he was enjoying himself: celebrating successes, encouraging his teammates, stopping to chat or laugh with them in between whistles. Somehow he managed to make it all look so effortless, even as he was clearly putting forth all of his effort into playing the game. Tim was a little jealous. 

At one point when they’d been given a break Conner turned to quickly wave at Tim before following the rest of his team down the hall into the locker room, but that was the extent of their interaction until practice was actually over.

At the end of practice, Conner skated over to a spot by the boards away from the entrance to the locker room, where all of the reporters were hovering. Tim took the hint and headed over to meet him.

Conner was already a few inches taller than Tim, but on skates he absolutely towered over him. It wasn’t just the extra height, but as if Conner was standing up straighter, more confident. His face was also dripping sweat, which probably should have been gross, but that wasn’t the first word that came to Tim’s mind.

“Hey,” Conner said, and he sounded a little breathless, but it was more of an invigorated sort of breathless than a tired one, and okay, that was a train of thought Tim needed to derail  _ immediately _ .

“Hi,” he replied, not confident in his ability to intelligently say much more than that at the moment.

“So um, I gotta go shower and stuff, but do you want to grab something to eat in a little bit?”

“Yeah, that’d be great.”

Conner Kent’s smile might actually be brighter than the sun, and it just wasn’t fair, “Great! Okay, they’re probably going to do a team pep talk in there and I really need to not miss that, but I’ll meet you outside in a little while, yeah?”

Tim nodded as Conner skated gracefully away, not terribly minding the view he got as he did so.

Tim did his best to ignore the lecherous grins and suggestive elbow nudges from his brothers when he told his family he would be meeting them at home later. Now he was standing by the door the players exited from, scrolling on his phone in a desperate attempt to block out the ‘is this or is this not a date’ debate raging in his head. At one point a security guard came by and told him he wasn’t allowed to loiter, but as soon as Tim had looked up from his phone he’d stuttered out and apology and walked off. It had honestly been a welcomed thirty second distraction from his own thoughts.

It had been nearly three quarters of an hour when Conner stepped out to meet him. “Hey, sorry, that took a little longer than I thought. They had me do an interview.”

He was wearing slacks and a button up with a tie again, which might have been a check in the ‘date’ column, although Tim was fairly certain the players were required to follow such a dress code whenever they were going to and from games and practices. Conner certainly didn’t strike Tim as the sort of person who would willingly wear a tie when it wasn’t explicitly required of him. There was something else notable about his outfit as well.

“You’re wearing glasses.” Tim observed, even though it was not a relevant response to any of what Conner had just said to him.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I have to wear contacts when I play and stuff, obviously, but I kind of hate them, so. Glasses.”

The glasses were a buffer between Tim and Conner’s disarmingly blue eyes, which was probably not such a bad thing. Plus, there was something about the dichotomy between Conner’s very athletic physique and the bookishness of his thick-rimmed glasses. It was charming.

“They look good.” Tim concluded, not that Conner really needed or asked for his approval on the subject.

Conner beamed and, god, weren’t hockey players supposed to have awful teeth, not perfect, pristine white ones? Tim’s life would be so much easier right now if that stereotype were true.

“Anyway, I clearly don’t know any good restaurants around here, so I figured I would leave choosing where we go to you.”

“Oh don’t worry, I know all the good restaurants,” Tim replied, beginning to run through the options in his mind, “Are you on any sort of special diet I should keep in mind?”

Conner shook his head, “I am, but no crazy restrictions or anything like that. So anywhere should be fine.”

“Alright, in that case I know somewhere walking distance from here so, shall we?”

“Sounds perfect, we shall!”

Tim would have put his own choosing of the restaurant down as a check in the ‘not a date’ column, but again its status was unclear; Conner did have a very valid reason to pass the choice on, since he only just relocated here. Why did everything seem so complicated when it came to his . . . whatever this was with Conner. Case in point, he didn’t even know what word to use to describe their relationship.

As they were walking to the restaurant Tim confirmed his hypothesis that Conner was slouching more than he had been when on his skates. It wasn’t really an unconfident slouch, but Tim couldn’t write it off as simple bad posture either; if Conner could stand up straight on a pair of ice skates, there was no reason he couldn’t do it standing on solid ground. It looked more like he just preferred to appear smaller than he actually was.

Conner also apologized for not having texted him sooner, which was so ridiculously ironic Tim couldn’t help but laugh a little, no matter how hard he tried to stifle it. When Conner looked confused, Tim admitted that he also had been feeling guilty about not texting Conner. He did not admit just how much he’d agonized over it, however.

Conner’s excuse was better than his though. Apparently, he’d had a very busy summer of intensive training, preparing for the NHL. The results spoke for themselves; now that Tim could see him without all the padding and the oversized jersey, Conner looked like he’d put on about 10 pounds of pure muscle in the months since Tim had seen him last. It was hard to believe such a thing had even been possible. 

At the restaurant Conner ordered a chicken dish and Tim ordered a salad. When their food arrived, Conner asked if it was just a health conscious decision or if Tim was a vegetarian.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Tim explained, “It’s a green thing.”

Conner nodded sagely, “Most vegetables are.”

Tim put his hand in front of his mouth to hide the chuckle he couldn’t quite hold in, “No, I mean . . . like, environmental. It’s better for the environment. To eat vegetarian.”

Conner buried his face in his hands. He stayed in that position just long enough that Tim started to worried he’d managed to really make him feel bad, until he noticed Conner’s shoulder’s were shaking. He was laughing at himself.

“Wow, okay, so I’m officially the biggest dumbass ever.”

Tim shook his head, “No, it’s my fault. I was ambiguous.” Still, he couldn’t quite wipe the grin off his face, even as he spoke the reassurance. Fortunately, Conner was grinning too.

As they continued to eat, Tim felt a question that he’d had since the day after the draft weighing heavily on his mind. He wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to ask it or not, but he was desperately curious. Conner had shown himself to be a pretty easy going guy, so finally he decided to just go for it.

“Hey, I was just curious--do you regret that Gotham drafted you?”

Conner looked bemused, “Why d’you ask?”

“Well, before the draft it seemed like you would probably go to Metropolis. So you could have been playing for your hometown, and instead now you’re playing for their . . . division rivals?” He was pretty sure that was the term he’d heard Dick and Jason use, “Isn’t that a little disappointing?”

“Oh I’m not from Metropolis,” Conner said plainly, “I’m from Kansas.”

Tim froze with his forkful of salad in midair, “What?”

“Yeah, I’m from this tiny little town in Kansas called Smallville. Population a hundred thousand, lots of farms, pretty much trapped in the fifties.”

Tim was baffled. Mostly because this new piece of information didn’t quite click with the knowledge he already had, “But I thought Clark was from Metropolis?”

Conner shook his head, “Nah, most people forget, or just don’t know, ‘cause he’s lived in Metropolis for so long, but dad’s just as much from Smallville as I am.”

There was more to this story, and it was hanging heavily in the air between them. Tim was mostly still trying to process what he had learned, and what it might mean, which was why he hadn’t said anything. But before he had the chance, Conner took a deep breath and continued.

“So when my dad was just about done with high school he had this big scholarship to go to Met U and study journalism, which was kind of a huge deal because people from Smallville don’t really go to college, you know? Especially not all the way to Metropolis. Then my mom, who my dad was obviously dating at the time, got pregnant, so he decided to stay. But then my grandparents told him not to do that, to you know, go live his dream or whatever, and they would help out when he was gone. Which pretty much turned into my grandparents raising me.”

Well, that was a lot of information to unpack. Tim felt guilty for putting Conner in a position where he felt like he had to reveal it all, but Conner almost looked a little relieved to talk about it. If this was a date, that had definitely not been the right direction to steer the conversation in. Tim exhaled, “Wow. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--I had no idea, about you and Clark, or I wouldn’t have asked. Obviously.”

“Don’t be sorry. It really doesn’t bother me. And my dad’s a really good dad, you know? It was just, by the time he was done with school, and had a place to live, and could afford to take care of me, I was already in school and stuff, so it didn’t make a lot of sense for me to move. Until my family realized how serious I was about the whole hockey thing, and I was clearly not going to get anywhere with that in Smallville, so I applied to Troy Academy for high school so I could play there. That’s when I actually moved in with my dad and Lois. And Jon of course.”

It certainly explained a lot. Like why Conner had used the word ‘they’ to refer to the rest of his family. And why Conner and Clark’s relationship had seemed a little awkward, even though the obviously cared about each other. Tim offered a small smile, “Thanks for telling me all of this.”

Conner smiled in return, “Thanks for listening. You just seem like someone who would understand.”

_ Because you also have a messed up family situation _ , Tim finished internally. But that thought was unfair to Conner on multiple levels, so he immediately regretted it. Instead he went with, “I’m glad to be able to understand you a little better.”

It was true. There was little Tim liked better than understanding things, and Conner was a subject he was anxious to figure out.

Just when the silence seemed like it was going to get uncomfortable, Conner swooped in to save the conversation, “ _ Anyway _ , to get back to your actual question. We don’t have a hockey team in Kansas, because  _ it’s Kansas _ . So I kinda root for St. Louis, because they were the closest we had, or Metropolis since that’s who most of my family roots for. But mostly I just love hockey, whoever is playing. And I just love to play hockey, and feel so lucky that I get to do it, so no, I don’t mind that it’s for Gotham. Even if I was the biggest Metropolis fan of all time I wouldn’t mind.”

It had been a good save, but Tim could also read between the lines. Conner didn’t want to talk about his family anymore.

“Well, I’m really happy for you.” Tim replied, “And I’m glad you’re here.”

Finally, the friendly, toothy smile that made it a little hard for Tim to breath had fully returned to Conner’s face, “Thanks. Me too.”

Tim was conscious to stick to much more neutral topics of conversation for the remainder of dinner. Normally he was the worst at small talk, but now that he was at least desensitized to Conner’s presence enough that it didn’t render him incoherent, Tim found that the taller boy was incredibly easy to talk to. He was funny, he had great manners, and he knew how to keep a conversation going even was Tim was struggling with it.

When it came time to pay for dinner Conner immediately offered to take care of it, a clear check in the ‘date’ column. Then again, he also boasted his new, $900,000 a year contract as justification that he should pay, so once again Tim was left unclear. He’d been too wrapped up in his conversation with Conner to keep track of the date versus not date factors for most of the evening anyway.

Conner was currently staying in a hotel until he found an apartment, and it was also not far, so after dinner they walked back together. Tim called himself an uber from there, and it must have been a busy night, because the closest one was fifteen minutes away. Conner insisted on waiting outside with him, even after multiple attempts by Tim to reassure him that he was perfectly fine.

While they were waiting, Tim dared to try actually talking about hockey to Conner, bringing up the practice that day and what he had observed. It didn’t take long before Conner was laughing at him.

Tim gave him a look, “What?”

“Nothing, you just talk about hockey like you’re reciting out of a hockey textbook.”

He sort of was reciting out of a hockey textbook, of course, but he wasn’t about to admit it to Conner now.

Conner continued, “Which is totally cool, and I think it’s cool that you’re so dedicated to learning about it, but there’s a lot more to the sport than the rules and the facts and the statistics. It’s a different experience when it all comes together in an actual game. You should try really watching one, or even better, try playing for yourself a little. Just for fun.”

“I guess I’ll definitely be watching a lot more hockey from now on, but I don’t think playing is really an option.”

“Why not?”

Tim shrugged, “I don’t know how to ice skate.”

By the look on Conner’s face, Tim may as well have just said he didn't know how to breath air.

“Okay, we have  _ got _ to fix that.”

Tim tried to brush him off with a noncommittal response. Learning the theory behind hockey was one thing, he wasn’t ready to commit to putting the knowledge to practical use.

When his uber arrived Tim was admittedly a little disappointed. He stood up from the bench they were sitting on.

Conner fidgeted a little before standing up with him and saying, “Hey uh, I’m really glad we hung out tonight. Tomorrow night we have like a whole team thing, and then our first game is away, but once I’m back we should do it again soon, if you want?”

It was official. Conner Kent was going to be the death of him.

“Yes, I would like that. Good night, Conner.”

The only consolation for how embarrassingly giddy he felt was that Conner looked just as giddy, “‘Night.”

Back at Wayne Manor Tim attempted to make a dash for his room, but it was futile. He was barely through the front door before Dick had grabbed him, spun him around, and practically body slammed him into a chair.

“Tell me everything!” His oldest brother demanded excitedly.

Tim debated trying to play it cool and act like the day had been no big deal. But that plan was almost certain to fail, not least of all because he still couldn’t even wipe the smile off his face.

So he told him everything.

* * *

“So, looks like your boyfriend’s playing on the first line tonight.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Tim asserted defensively, then frowned as Jason snickered, having gotten the exact reaction he’d been fishing for. “But uh, that’s a pretty big deal, right?”

“Yes and no,” Dick explained, “Putting him on the starting line shows they have a lot of faith in him, but it’s just the preseason. These games don’t actually count, so they usually use them as a chance to let the rookies stretch their legs, prove themselves. A lot of top players won’t even be playing on most teams.”

“So if Conner wants that spot when it really counts he has to earn it now.” Tim concluded.

“Exactly.”

As Conner had mentioned the other night and the end of their outing (which Tim was still not confident he could call a date), the team had traveled for their first game, to Calgary. So after all of the build up over the last few months they were actually settled in to watch it on the television in the manor. It was honestly a little anticlimactic.

“I’m surprised you’re actually joining us for this one, Baby Bird,” Jason spoke up, resuming his taunting, “If only we’d realized years ago all it would take to get you on the hockey train was a player with a tight enough ass.”

“Okay, if there’s one good thing to come of Damian’s existence, it’s that you have no justification to call me Baby Bird anymore.” Tim retorted. He had no intention of taking the bait about Conner again, but Jason had always been a little too good at pushing his buttons.

“Aw, come on, you’ll always be Baby Bird to me.” Jason replied in a faux sweet tone.

Tim rolled his eyes. But, saved by the bell (or perhaps the horn was more appropriate in this case), the game was starting, and Jason actually loved hockey just a little bit more than he loved tormenting Tim.

About halfway through the first period Tim realized that Conner had definitely been right: this was a completely different experience than reading about hockey theory or even watching a practice. Despite everything he had learned over the past weeks of researching, when it all came together in a game Tim still had no idea what he was watching. It was so fast paced he was struggling to keep up. 

By the end of the first period, Tim felt left in the dust. Jason yelled at the television a lot while he was watching games, and Dick was not exactly a silent observer himself, so from their commentary as well as that of the actual network commentators, Tim was at least able to gather that the Blades were playing well. But they didn’t have much to show for it as far as he could tell; neither team had actually scored yet.

“Conner Kent got a lot of ice time.” Dick observed aloud during the intermission. It was definitely for Tim’s benefit, which was appreciated. He needed the clarification, and Dick knew how to do it without making him feel completely stupid and out of the loop, “that’s good. He looks good.”

Tim could agree with that. At the very least, he was doing his best to keep his eyes on Conner whenever he was playing. He looked as natural as ever on the ice. And confident, too. Tim couldn’t really speak to his gameplay from a strategic standpoint, but he was definitely impressive to watch.

“Yeah, although if you’re gunna have any clue what’s going on, you should probably spend less time watching him and more time watching the puck.” Jason grinned.

Tim groaned. He didn’t think he’d been that obvious about it. 

During the second period, Tim did endeavor to follow the puck more. It helped, although he still struggled to fully keep up with what was happening. 

With just two minutes left in the period a player from Gotham intercepted a pass meant for the other team. He in turn passed it to Conner, who had nothing but wide open ice between himself and the other team’s net. 

“Yes, he’s got a break away!” Dick cheered as the commentator on the television indicated the same.

Conner was off like a shot. The defense from the other team tried to catch him, but he was too fast and there was too much distance between them. The only thing between him and a goal was the goaltender.

He shot high. It went right over the goalie’s stick and into the net. 

Dick and Jason both cheered. Tim celebrated right along with them, happy for Conner but also still feeling his own rush of exhilaration over what had been an unexpectedly very exciting ten seconds watching it unfold. Conner’s arms were in the air, and his teammates who were on the ice swarmed him for a group hug, the ones on the bench standing and cheering. 

Before play resumed the camera briefly zoomed in on Conner, now sitting on the bench. He was smiling, a different kind of smile than the bright, cheerful one Tim was used to.

His was the only goal Gotham scored that night, but it was enough. They won the game 1-0.

When the game was over Tim texted Conner,  _ Well played tonight. Nice shot. _

He didn’t get a reply for several hours. Fortunately Tim was a night owl, so he was still awake when his phone finally buzzed with a new message from Conner,  _ were u watching? _

It seemed like a silly question, but Tim also hadn’t made a secret about not being a big hockey fan.  _ Of course.  _

_ Good cause that 1 was for u _

* * *

Through the two weeks of preseason, Conner Kent became an overnight sensation in Gotham. He was averaging a point a game and playing on a penalty kill lineup that, approaching the final game of the preseason, had yet to be scored against. They started selling jerseys and t-shirts with his number 93 on them; Tim couldn’t help but smile whenever he would see one while out and about.

Tim and Conner had also hung out a few more times as the schedule had allowed. Still, Tim couldn’t definitively say whether the time they spent together counted at dates. Neither had explicitly labeled them as such, and while they both seemed to be enjoying themselves nothing overtly romantic had occurred either. There was no ignoring the fact that besides his teammates, who he already spent a lot of time with, Conner didn’t know anyone in Gotham other than Tim yet, leaving the possibility he was just looking for a friend. And Tim wasn’t about to risk messing that up for him.

The last preseason game was a home game. Tim was with the rest of his family in the private box watching the game unfold. He’d found that following along was a bit harder when he was at the games than when watching on television, because he didn’t have the benefit of the camera guiding his field of vision. He was getting better, though, and was starting to be able to keep up when his brothers were discussing plays. 

This game had been a tense one. With a little over five minutes remaining the score was tied 2-2. They were playing St. Louis, the team Conner had named as his ‘hometown team’ that first night in Gotham, but it was their second time facing off in the preseason and it didn’t seem to be slowing him down at all. The Blues had held the lead for most of the game, but Gotham had just managed to tie it up in the second half of the third, and both teams seemed to be feeling the pressure of how close it was.

Conner’s line was on the ice, and had control of the puck. The left wing Bart Allen, one of the players Gotham had picked up during the off season, carried it into the offensive zone and passed to the center, but the pass was intercepted. One of the St. Louis defenseman slammed Allen into the boards, hard and head first, and the whistle blew. Play stopped, but Conner did not. He flew across the ice, right up to the defenseman who had made the hit, and shoved him by both shoulders. From the zoomed in view of the jumbotron Tim could see that he was yelling, or arguing, but couldn’t make out what he was saying at all. Then the other St. Louis defenseman arrived on the scene, and he shoved  _ Conner _ , and . . .

. . .and, okay, they were punching each other.

Tim watched, mystified, as a brawl broke out on the ice, players from both teams piling on and grabbing at each other, while Conner and the Blues defenseman had an actual fist fight.

“Are they  _ allowed _ to do that?” Tim asked, noticing the official on the ice stood right by them but did nothing to actually break up the fight.

“Well, they’re going to get a penalty for it, but yeah, he’ll let them go at it a bit first.” Dick explained, “Good for Conner, though. He did the right thing there.”

“By punching someone?”

Dick shook his head, “By sticking up for his teammate. That was a bad hit, and it happened behind the play--they’re not supposed to hit someone who isn’t touching the puck anymore. That’s what Conner got in the other player’s face about. Of course, the other team's players also need to stick up for each other, which is how the punching ends up happening.”

True to Dick’s explanation, after less than a minute the on-ice official was breaking up the fight, and things calmed down amongst the players. The same could not be said for the crowd, however, who had taken to their feet to cheer and were still creating a dull roar within the arena. Even Jason, for all his complaining that Conner was a goon after the draft, had been cheering.

Conner went to the penalty box, but so did both St. Louis defenseman; one for fighting him, and the other for the boarding call that had started the whole situation. Gotham was going on the power play.

With the momentum totally in their favor it did not take the Blades long to capitalize. Not thirty seconds into the power play they scored. The crowd exploded. Everyone in the private box was cheering, and clapping each other on the shoulder. Gotham won the game 3-2.

It was after the final whistle blew, as the team were all celebrating together on the ice, that Tim finally fully understood what Conner had been trying to tell him. This game was a lot more than just numbers and strategy. When those things all came together, and the players came together, and the fans along with them, something really special happened. 

Later that night Tim was attempting to finish up some schoolwork, but he just couldn’t focus on it. With a resigned sigh, he texted Conner,  _ Okay you win. I want you to teach me how to skate. _

He almost immediately regretted it, because he received not one but  _ three _ sunglasses emojis for his trouble, and he could practically hear Conner gloating behind those stupid smiley faces. But then Conner followed up with  _ sunday?  _ And when Tim responded in the affirmative Conner’s final reply was  _ its a date _ . So maybe Tim could live with Conner being right just this once.

* * *

Conner always looked nice when he was dressed for games or other hockey events, but Tim definitely preferred it when he was in his own casual clothing. He just seemed much more himself in his jeans and his t-shirts, which tended to fit a little too tight across his chest--another benefit as far as Tim was concerned. That was how Conner was dressed today, although he’s also added a zip-up hoodie into the mix. It was late September and not really sweatshirt weather in Gotham just yet, but they would be spending the afternoon in an ice rink.

“Hey! Oh good, you have a pair of skates,” Conner greeted as Tim walked up to join him outside the rink.

Tom nodded, “Yeah, they’re my brother’s, actually, but they fit fine.” Of course, borrowing a pair of skates from Jason had meant telling Jason about his plans today. He would probably be paying for that choice for the next century or so, but he’d resigned himself to it in exchange for the opportunity for more time with Conner.

“Better than rentals,” Conner offered, “Rentals suck. Also, skates get pretty gross, so rentals are usually like,  _ really _ gross.”

That was definitely not a problem he would be having, Tim thought. Sadly, Jason’s skates had hardly ever been used.

“Anyway,” Conner continued, “We’re still a couple minutes out from our start time, but I got us the rink for an hour. I figured that was a good place to start.”

Tim simply nodded in agreement at first, until the full meaning behind Conner’s words sunk in, “Wait, you rented out the whole rink? Just for the two of us?” 

“Yes, well, not sure if anybody mentioned this, but learning how to ice skate tends to involve falling on your ass a lot. You strike me as the sort of person who would not prefer to do so in front of an audience.”

Tim just sort of gaped at him. It was equal parts ridiculous and weirdly thoughtful.

The lack of response seemed to make Conner feel awkward. He rubbed at the back of his head, “Also, it’s really not that big of a deal. Guys do it all the time. You know, for extra practice and stuff.”

“It’s great,” Tim smiled, “So, let’s do this.”

Inside the lobby of the rink, they got more than a few stares from the staff and the patrons who were wrapping up. Tim was a household name around Gotham at this point, and Conner was beginning to develop his own level of notoriety. There were probably some parts of the city where he at least could go unnoticed, but the ice skating rink was definitely not one of them. 

If they kept spending time together the gossip outlets were bound to take notice. Conner’s status as the only player to be out and playing in the NHL had no shortage of coverage in the media, and Tim had rather publicly come out as gay himself over a year prior when the Wayne Foundation had started an initiative to support LGBT youth in crisis. The rumor mill was sure to be wilder than anything Tim’s imagination could supply, and his imagination was embarrassingly wild where Conner Kent was concerned.

But Tim didn’t want to waste time worrying about that today. He just wanted to enjoy his time with Conner. And hopefully not bruise his tailbone while he was at it.

In the rink itself Tim sat on the lowest bleacher and laced up his skates, as Jason had also regrettably had to show him how to do that morning. Conner had already put on his skates and walked over to the ice as easily as if he were wearing sneakers. Tim hesitantly shuffled his way there. 

They were standing face to face on either side of the open door that separated the ice from the rest of the rink, Conner on the ice and Tim on the floor. Tim carefully removed his blade guards and looked up at Conner, who was once again standing tall and looking more comfortable than he even did on solid ground.

He must have stared a bit too long, because Conner grinned and said, “Admiring my battle wounds?”

Conner didn’t have a black eye, but there was a considerable cut on his now barely swollen left cheek, remnants of his fight in the last preseason game. Tim rolled his eyes, “Ah yes, very admirable, the way you got punched in the face.”

That earned a pout from Conner, “Hey, I didn’t just get punched. I also did some face punching myself.”

“My hero,” Tim replied sarcastically. Of course, Conner had conducted himself impressively the other night, and Tim knew that thanks to Dick’s explanation. But these past few weeks had taught him that ruffling Conner’s feathers was a lot easier on Tim’s composure than being candid with him was.

The look on Conner’s face was unreadable, but it didn’t last long enough regardless. With a more typical grin Conner held out his arms, palms up and bent at the elbows and said, “Ready?”

Tim was staring again and this time he knew it, though his gaze was now directed at Conner’s arms rather than his face. It was easy enough to understand the implicit directions within Conner’s stance, but understanding what Conner was asking him to do and actually doing it were two  _ very _ different things. After way more hesitation than should have been necessary for a very simple task, Tim reached out and put his arms atop Conner’s, holding on just below his elbows. Even there, his hands barely fit around Conner’s large arms, “Guess we’ll find out.”

At first, with Conner guiding him and holding him steady, skating seemed deceptively easy. So deceptively easy that before long Tim had quickly let go of Conner’s arms, and as Conner had predicted, had just as quickly fallen on his ass.

Conner was gracious enough to confirm that Tim was all right before he laughed. He hoisted Tim back up to his feet with one arm, not even wobbling on his skates in the process. “Not as easy as it looks, is it?”

“Not my fault you’ve given me unrealistic expectations,” Tim replied automatically, before he had time to consider how much he might be giving himself away with such a comment. But Conner looked so  _ pleased _ , not even a gloating sort of please but just genuinely happy about the compliment, that he supposed it was worth it.

He held tight to Conner for a while after that, accepting his instructions and adapting to them carefully. He was painfully aware that it was the closest they had ever been to each other, that in the cold air of the rink he could feel Conner’s breath as he provided feedback on the way Tim was bending his knees, or the position of his back. It was all Tim could do to focus entirely on the process, and try to forget Conner was there. Much like ice skating, that seemed to be easier said than done.

Conner just patiently skated around backwards with him, such a natural that he didn’t have to pay much attention to what he was doing. He was so focused on instructing Tim that at one point he surprised himself by backing right into the boards. He barely even stumbled when it happened, the jerk. 

Eventually Tim was hovering his arms above Conner’s instead of holding on, ready to regain purchase by grabbing hold of him if necessary but largely balancing on his own. Then before long he was skating tentatively along on his own.

He still fell a couple of times, but given that Conner was there to help him up each time he couldn’t really complain about it.

Conner never strayed too far away, even as Tim had clearly gotten the hang of it and stopped falling. He wasn’t arrogant enough to think he was anywhere near an expert, like Conner was, but soon enough he was feeling confident that he at least had the basics down.

“Okay, why is standing still so much hard than moving?” Tim complained mildly, stopping to take a break and needing to hold on to the boards to steady himself. He would have much preferred to continue using Conner as his anchor, but he’d gone just long enough without needing it that it felt too forward to suddenly grab hold of him again.

“Judging by how you’ve done so far? I’m sure you’ll have the hang of it in no time.” Conner replied earnestly, “You’re one of those people who’s instantly good at everything they do, aren’t you? ‘Cause that’s so not fair.”

Tim bristled, getting defensive at the backhanded compliment. He knew Conner didn’t mean anything by it, and he should just let it go, but it was a little too close to  _ know-it-all  _ and  _ show off _ , and other words that had all too often been used unkindly towards him.

Maybe Conner noticed his comment had come across the wrong way, maybe not. Either way, he continued on as if to lighten the mood again, “Like seriously, I am  _ not _ teaching you how to play hockey. You’ll be stealing my spot on the team in a month. Sorry, Tim, but skating’s as far as you go.”

It did the trick. Tim smiled, “In my defense, I used to do gymnastics. Pretty big advantage for maintaining balance, probably wouldn’t translate into helpful hockey skills.”

Conner received the new piece of information with an eager smile, “Really? I had no idea. Why’d you stop?”

Tim was unprepared for the question, mostly because no one had ever bothered to ask it. But it made sense that Conner, who had officially dedicated his entire life to his sport of choice, would be immediately curious to know such a thing. Tim just wasn’t sure if he knew how to answer.

“I don’t really know. I was getting so busy, and then my dad . . . I guess I just decided to focus on school instead.”

Tim wasn’t sure whether or not Conner knew about his parents; pretty much everyone in Gotham knew, and it was easy enough to google, but Conner didn’t strike him as a person who paid much attention to that sort of news. He felt guilty about it, especially since Conner had been so open with him about his less than picture perfect family situation, but Tim really hoped he didn’t ask. Tim just couldn’t talk about it right now, not when Conner already made him feel so vulnerable in so many other ways.

Fortunately, whether he knew or not, Conner didn’t ask. “Well, do you regret it? Stopping, I mean?”

Tim shook his head, “Not really.”

Conner shrugged, “Then good for you. You can still do it whenever you want for fun, right?”

Not for the first time, Tim was amazed by how simply Conner saw the world work. He was so good at it he could almost make Tim believe it was that simple. “Sure. I actually do, sometimes. We have equipment at the manor.”

“Of course you do,” Conner replied, and it seemed impossible that Conner would even remember Tim’s comment about Clark’s swear jar, let alone that he could be actually throwing it back in Tim’s face right now, but the devious grin on his face suggested otherwise. “Okay, you have one final test before I can formally pronounce you a master of the basics of ice skating.”

“First of all, I’m pretty sure ‘master of the basics’ is an oxymoron.” Tim returned a devious grin of his own, “And second of all, I wasn’t aware there was going to be a test. But what did you have in mind?”

The look on Conner’s face was almost evil, and that should not have been as attractive as it was. But he just leaned forward, tapped Tim lightly on the shoulder, and said, “Catch me.”

He skated off. He wasn’t moving at nearly his top speed, but he was fast enough that he was out of range long before Tim had time to react at his current skill level.

“Seriously, we’re playing tag?” Tim asked incredulously.

“Technically, right now you’re losing at tag.” Conner taunted from his position near center ice.

That did it. Tim was after him. Conner was still skating backwards, keeping an eye on Tim, and he was definitely going slow enough to intentionally give Tim a chance, but he also definitely wasn’t making it easy. 

But Tim wasn’t one to take challenges lying down. Eventually, he managed to predict when Conner was going to turn, and in what direction, and he was able to close most of the distance between them by cutting him off. One little burst of speed, and Tim was able to lean forward just enough to reach out and tap Conner’s shoulder.

Unfortunately, he’d also leaned forward just enough that he toppled over, taking Conner with him.

Conner landed on his back with a dull thud. He winced, but he was still smiling, “Oof, it’s been a while since I did that without pads on. Really does hurt.”

“Really? I didn’t feel anything.” Tim replied coyly, shocking himself with how forward he was. The fall hadn’t hurt him because, of course, he’d fallen right on top of Conner. Now they were lying chest to chest on the ice, staring at each other,  _ way _ closer than they’d ever been, Tim propped up on his arm beside Conner’s head to keep from crushing him (not that he probably could). It was like he’d been plucked out of his normal, sane life and dropped into a romantic comedy, and it seemed like his only options were either to go with it and hope for the best or literally die of embarrassment because oh god,  _ he was laying on top of Conner Kent right now _ .

Conner didn’t seem to mind the flirtation, which in itself was a miracle, the almost lecherous, entirely too pleased look on his face a second miracle. It was all too much for Tim who, after that one impulsive outburst, had been rendered mute by their proximity, so close that Tim’s breath was causing Conner’s glasses to fog. But Conner was giving him a look, and Tim felt fingers brush against the hair on the back of his neck, so light and so brief that he couldn’t ascertain whether it had been intentional or not, and he was also very, fundamentally sure in that moment that Conner was about to kiss him.

And then he knew, without a doubt, that he had been thrust into a terrible romantic comedy, because that’s when the rink staff member cleared her throat and informed them that their hour of ice time was up.

Tim scrambled off of Conner, awkwardly, because they were both still wearing skates which still had very sharp blades on them, and sat on his knees for a moment, face in his hands, trying not to hyperventilate. Conner sat himself up, frustratingly, infuriatingly way less frazzled by the entire situation than Tim was, as if it had honestly been no big deal. “Damn, guess I should have gotten more time.  I figured you’d be sore enough it would be time to stop by now, but I think I underestimated your ability to not fall down, Mr. former gymnast.”

“Well, obviously you didn’t underestimate me too much.” Tim snapped back, uncertain why he was so angry all of a sudden, but irrationally certain that it was the less damning emotion than the crippling embarrassment he was trying to keep at bay.

“Whoa, easy there,” Conner sounded confused, which was fair considering Tim had just done a mood 180 on him. But to his endless credit, he did not get mad in return, “Sorry, that was my bad, I probably pushed you a little too hard in the end. But like I said at the beginning it happens. To literally everyone. So don’t worry about it, okay? Why don’t we go get some coffee and warm up, or something?”

Tim wasn’t sure how much more he could handle today, but he did know the only thing that could make this situation anymore awkward and abysmal than it already was, was if he allowed his afternoon with Conner to end here. So he stood up, making sure to do it on his own even as Conner offered him a hand and said, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

The awkwardness still hung in the air between them at the coffee shop. They sat across from each other in a little booth, attempting to make small talk and failing miserably, until Conner said, “Hey so, can I just be real for a minute?”

“Uh, sure.” Tim answered, managing to keep his voice even despite the mildly terrifying nature of the question.

“I just feel like I’ve been trying to flirt with you a lot, and sometimes it seems like you’re really into it and other times it seems like you’re  _ really _ not, and I’m just kinda having a hard time interpreting the mixed signals.”

Tim was very glad he’d had the foresight not to take a sip of his coffee prior to Conner’s ‘real talk.’ He would absolutely have spit it out if he had.

“But yeah, uh, honestly, I can be a pretty stubborn dude, so if there’s some hint I should be taking here, you should probably let me know and I promise I will lay off if you do.”

“No, no, no,” Tim said frantically, and a little stupidly, but his brain was still working on a proper, intelligent response to this news, and he did not want to leave Conner hanging while he worked it out, “There’s no hint. I wasn’t trying to--I didn’t realize you were--”

This was not going well. Conner didn’t seem to mind, though. He laughed, “Okay, good. ‘Cause I should probably be completely real while I’m at it, and the truth is your little brother told my little brother that you kept talking with your older brothers about how you had a crush on me--their words, not mine--and then my little brother told me about it. And it would be really embarrassing to find out I put myself out there like that just to get trolled by a couple of eleven year olds.”

Tim stared. He stared some more. Then he closed his eyes, and took a  _ very _ deep breath, “Wow, I never thought it would actually come to this, but it’s official. I am going to kill Damian.”

“I promise not to tell the police you said that when they collect my statement about the murder.” Conner grinned, but then he grew more serious, “Seriously though, I know that was a huge invasion of your privacy and I’m really sorry. It wasn’t on purpose. And Jon, at least, I’m sure just thought he was being helpful by telling me.”

“Oh, Damian was definitely  _ not _ trying to be helpful. But you don’t have to apologize for that. It’s not your fault he’s a demon child.”

“Yeah I mean, for starters, I’m not the one who named him  _ Damian _ . Really, have they not seen  _ The Omen _ ?”

Tim couldn’t help himself, he finally cracked a smile again at that, “In Bruce’s defense, it is spelled differently.”

Conner looked proud to have gotten Tim to smile again, but was also starting to seem a bit anxious, “So, uh, just to clarify, I didn’t get trolled by a couple of eleven year olds, right?”

Tim sighed, but he was still smiling. There was no point in being anything but frank about it now. It was honestly a relief. “No, you did not. Yes, I like you. I refuse to use the word ‘crush’ because I’m not a prepubescent boy, but yes. That.”

There was that pleased expression again, the one Conner had made when Tim complimented his skating. “Great. ‘Cause I really like you, too.” As if he sensed the question lingering in Tim’s brain, Conner added, “And I did since before Jon said anything to me. Like, since we met in June. Knowing it was probably mutual just made it easier for me to be forward about it.”

“Cool,” Tim concluded lamely. This was not the sort of conversation he had much experience with, “So I guess this is a thing, then?”

“Like, a boyfriend thing?” Conner asked hopefully, as if he had any business being the hopeful one here.

Tim nodded, not trusting himself to avoid saying something stupid again. Conner lit up the room with his smile, as usual.

When they left the coffee shop, Conner walked in the direction of the manor with Tim, despite it being out of his way. He seemed to just not want to part ways yet, which Tim was not going to complain about. So they walked together as long as they could justify, Tim feeling entirely too happy about the fact that they were now holding hands as they did so.

“You know,” Conner began tentatively as they were walking along, “Earlier, back at the rink, I really wanted to kiss you.”

“I know,” Tim replied. After realizing it was an insufficient response, besides a somewhat rude one, he also said, “I mean, I could tell you wanted to. And I also wanted you to.”

Conner stopped walking. He was giving Tim the look again, the one from right before they were interrupted at the rink. “I still want to.”

Once it was clear Tim was not going to protest, Conner leaned down and pressed their lips together. Tim felt a hand gently come to the back of his neck again, and this time it was definitely on purpose. He pressed his entire body up against Conner’s as he leaned into the kiss. 

They did go their separate ways after that, but at least it had been a good-bye he could hold on to until next time.

* * *

Ominously, Jason was waiting around for him when he returned to Wayne Manor.

“Well, look who we have here,” Jason sing-songed, sounding way too happy, almost certainly at Tim’s expense, “it’s the twitter trender himself.”

“Oh no,” Tim groaned, whipping his phone out to discover what Jason was talking about, not that it was hard to guess. He hadn’t noticed anyone around when he and Conner had kissed. But he hadn’t been looking for other people, hadn’t even been thinking about anything besides Conner, and they’d been in public in broad daylight. Of course someone had seen them.

Except, when he found what he was looking for, it wasn’t a picture of the kiss he had shared with Conner.

There was a picture of the two of them trending in Gotham, though. At the rink, from when Tim had fallen on top of Conner and landed them in a compromising position on the ice. It looked far more scandalous than the actual kiss would have, even though nothing had happened in the moment that had been captured on film.

The rink employee had snapped a photo before she’d gotten their attention, apparently.

Tim had needed to take way too many deep breaths today. He took another one now, “Please remind me that I’m a good person, and that making Bruce get the person who took this picture fired would be cruel and unusual.”

“You are a good person, and that would be cruel and unusual.” Jason agreed, sounding bored. “I, on the other hand, am a terrible person, and would happily handle it for you if you want.”

“Please don’t.” Tim replied, ignoring the part of himself that really wanted to say yes.

“Suit yourself. Hey, at least things are going well with lover boy.”

Tim sighed, “I know you’re never going to believe me, but despite how this picture looks nothing happened. I fell and he caught me. Accidentally. Because I fell on top of him.”

“That’s so stupid that I do believe you.” Jason laughed, “But you realize no one else is going to believe you, right?”

“Yes, but I think that’s okay. We actually did kiss today, just not when this picture was taken.”

Jason laughed harder.

“Oh, and here are your skates back,” Tim added, holding up the pair he was carrying, “Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

Jason grimaced, “Keep ‘em. They obviously did you better today than they’re ever gunna do me.”

Tim frowned, but nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

It had been an emotional roller coaster of a day. But given that Conner Kent was now his _boyfriend_ , it had also been a very, very good day.


	3. Regular Season

The regular season saw big changes to the Gotham Blades lineup, as Dick had told Tim it would. Many of the players who had made the roster during the preseason had returned to the AHL team in Happy Harbor, while the veteran players who had sat out those few weeks returned to the team. Conner, who was a right wing, stayed with his left wing Bart Allen, but they were moved down to the third line with a new center. 

Tim was concerned about how Conner would react to the demotion, but he took it in good spirits. He seemed to have been expecting it, in fact. Conner was just happy to have earned his spot on the major league team. He was also happy to stay with Bart, who he’d come to get along with well and who, at the recommendation of the Blades’ leadership, was his new roommate.

The Blades had a solid start to their season, winning their first three then taking a loss in an away game against Metropolis. Conner’s offensive output took a pretty big hit compared to his performance in the preseason, likely hindered by his move to the third line and his therefore significantly reduced ice time. Defensively, on the other hand, he was thriving. His plus/minus was as impressive as it had been in the NCAA, and he was still playing on the team’s top penalty kill line, which was the most successful in the league heading in to November.

They didn’t have Roy Harper, who led the league in goals heading into November. But while Gotham lacked a single superstar, they managed to make up for it by having a very solid, well-balanced team overall. Already it was a huge turnaround from the previous season. 

Bruce’s critics had been silenced, if they hadn’t joined in on praising him. Under his new management team the organization had developed just as he’d promised when purchasing it: restructured from the top down, with a newfound competitive edge, and winning hockey games again.

The reviews on Conner were still more mixed. Many analysts praised his ability to play both ends of the ice, and to maintain his style of playing a tough, physical game of hockey in a league where the players were mostly older, stronger, and in some cases (but not many) larger than he was. Others still argued his mediocre number of points wrapping up the first month of the season was proof of exactly what critics of his draft pick were afraid of.

And hockey wasn’t the only thing Conner was making headlines for. After the twitter fiasco he and Tim’s budding relationship had gotten very public, very fast. It was not ideal, having the eyes of the entire city on them before they’d even had time to properly figure things out themselves. But Tim was at least used to the media invading every aspect of his life, and Conner, like he did most things, was taking it in stride. He’d even found the initial twitter reveal funny, although he’d definitely underestimated how far it was going to spiral from there.

The whole thing had made Conner something of a darling of the LGBT community, or at least those therein who also happened to be hockey fans. In addition to the officially licensed gear with Conner’s name and number on it, outlets online also began selling versions of the shirts upon which the Blades’ logo was rainbow, or pink and blue. It brought a smile to Tim’s face whenever he would see people wearing them in the stands at home games.

When asked directly about it in interviews Conner tended to brush off the question, remind that his sexuality had nothing to do with his ability to play hockey, and get back to talking about the game. But Tim could tell it meant more to him than that. 

“It’s pretty awesome,” Conner admitted when Tim had finally asked him about it, “it was kind of hard for me growing up in Smallville, you know? I mean, I guess I was lucky since I could blend in easily enough, but that didn’t exactly feel great. And I looked up to all these pro athletes, but it was like none of them were  _ like  _ me. So if I can be that for some kids then I’m glad.”

Tim smiled, “I’m sure they’re glad, too.”

Going on dates publicly became nearly impossible the more people became aware of them. Conner’s growing fame alone was struggle; at first he ate it up when people who stop him and ask for autographs or photos, but before long he clearly grew tired of being such a public figure in Gotham. Conner did a great job of acting genial and excited to meet everyone he spoke to. He didn't seem to mind the attention--on the contrary he seemed to really love being the center of attention, but constantly getting interrupted when they were just trying to spend time together was definitely frustrating him.

One day he asked Tim if it was always going to be so hard. Tim laughed lightly.

“Can’t tell you about all the autographs, but they’ll probably leave us alone after a while, once we’re old news. Maybe it’s best to lay low until then.”

The manor was absolutely not an option--Tim would rather face a throng of LA level paparazzi than risk the possibility of Conner getting cornered by Dick or Jason at home. So that was how Tim found himself in Conner’s apartment for the first time in mid-November.

As usual, Tim couldn’t curb his initial tendency to observe everything, “It’s a lot cleaner than I expected.”

It was true. The space was bright, and very tidy. It was also minimally furnished, although Tim suspected that had more to do with Conner still settling in than being a conscious decorating choice.

“Gee, thanks,” Conner replied sarcastically, gently elbowing Tim in the ribs as he did so. But he was also grinning, “You know, they always make fun of messy people by saying ‘did you grow up in a barn,’ and I don’t get. ‘Cause uh, I did, and let me tell you--you could eat off those barnhouse floors.”

Tim laughed.

“I’m serious. Ma Kent is the sweetest lady you will ever meet, but she does  _ not _ screw around when it comes to people walking on her hardwood without taking their shoes off in the mud room first.”

“I’m sure she’s a force to be reckoned with.” Tim acquiesced. 

“You have no idea,” Conner agreed, collapsing onto his couch and rather promptly putting his feet up on the coffee table. Tim gave him a pointed look, and Conner grinned devilishly, “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Now come here.”

Tim did. He sat a little gingerly on the couch, always having had a hard time getting comfortable in other people’s homes. Conner did not seem to be similarly reticent about Tim’s presence, putting an arm around his shoulder and pulling him close, acting for all the world as if this were routine for them and not uncharted territory. 

It was easier to relax when Conner was so relaxed, he found. For a while, that’s all they did. Relaxed, talked about nothing in particular, enjoyed each other’s company. Of course, when Conner began ghosting a hand gently up and down Tim’s arm and leaned in for a kiss, it was easy for Tim to go with that, too.

They’d kissed plenty of times in the past month or so. But those had been fleeting, largely in public or semi-public, mostly a means of saying good-bye. Now, alone on Conner’s couch, they were not so restricted. Tim turned his body so that he was facing Conner fully, a somewhat awkward position as they were still sitting side-by-side on the couch, but the minor discomfort was easy to ignore when their bodies were pressed together. 

Unhindered, Conner was an aggressive kisser. It was a development Tim had no intention of complaining about. Conner forced the kiss deeper, but in his defense Tim was putting up no resistance. Then he paused for a moment, just long enough to reach over Tim, take hold of him by the hips, and lift him up off of the couch and into Conner’s lap.

It should not have been so easy to just pick someone up, and Tim should  _ not _ have enjoyed getting manhandled nearly as much as he did. Conner seemed to get the message, as he left his hands on Tim’s hips and held tight as he went in for another kiss. Tim groaned, fisting his hands in Conner’s t-shirt, which seemed to egg him on even further.

Somewhere, in the rapidly shrinking part of his brain that was still thinking functionally, Tim wondered just how far this was going to go. He might have been concerned about how far he felt willing to let it go, but again, he was running out of rationality. It was hard to be rational with Conner’s tongue in his mouth, hands on his hips, and body hot against his.

“Yeesh, get a room or something, would ya?”

Bart Allen had emerged from behind his previously closed bedroom door. He darted over to the kitchen to retrieve a drink, and was back in his room almost as quickly as he had come. 

Tim let out a different kind of groan, “You didn’t feel the need to mention that Bart was here?”

“I was caught up in the moment,” Conner pouted, “I wasn’t thinking about Bart.”

“Well, I guess I can’t be mad about that.”

Conner offered a cheeky grin, but then he sighed, “Really though, is getting interrupted going to be our thing? ‘Cause I really don’t want it to be our thing.”

Tim could agree with that sentiment; he didn’t want this becoming any more of a trend than it already was. Reluctantly, he climbed off of Conner’s lap. Conner made a very disappointed sound in response, which further emboldened Tim towards his intended plan. He pointed a thumb towards Conner’s bedroom, “In that case, maybe we should take Bart’s advice?”

Conner very enthusiastically followed that suggestion.

 

* * *

 

The Blades went on a brief road trip in the middle of November, with three away games in a row. Bruce attended their first practice after they returned, not having seen the team in action himself in over a week. He came back with some surprising news.

“I invited Conner over for Thanksgiving dinner next week.”

Tim paled, “You what?  _ Why _ ?”

“There are games too soon before and after the holiday to justify traveling home for him. Most of the players are married and have families here, or are at least more settled. You wouldn’t want him to be by himself, would you?”

“What’s the matter, Baby Bird?” Jason taunted, “Don’t you want your boyfriend to come have dinner with us?”

Truthfully, the answer to both of their questions was ‘no.’ Of course Tim didn’t want Conner to have to spend Thanksgiving alone. He also absolutely didn’t want him here. That wasn’t about Conner. It was about subjecting Conner to his family.

Dick smiled, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll behave ourselves.”

Jay smiled too, although that was not as comforting as the reassurance from Dick. Even Bruce, who had definitely meant well by including Conner (probably thinking of his connection both to Tim and to Clark), had a twinkle in his eye that Tim didn’t care for. 

At any rate, Conner had already accepted the invitation, and there would be no way for him to back out on it without being rude. And there was also no way of Tim suggesting Conner decline the invitation without making him thinking  _ he  _ was the reason Tim didn’t want him coming. There was nothing to be done about it. It was sooner than Tim would have preferred--about a decade or so, if he could be dramatic about it--but Conner was just going to have to come meet his family.

Fortunately, Tim at least was spared the hassle of having to introduce everyone. Unfortunately, that meant they were already that much more comfortable about giving Conner a hard time.

Conner took it all in stride. But it wasn’t just the heckling. He was clearly out of his element. Each time they started a new course he would peek over at Tim to see which piece of silverware to use. Tim smiled encouragingly and tried to help as subtly as he could. By dessert Conner was looking overwhelmed. 

The worst of the harassment, unsurprisingly, came from Jason. He was grilling Conner about hockey plays or statistics around the NHL, likely looking to catch Conner in an answer he didn’t agree with. Blessedly Dick came to his defense, reminding that it was a holiday and Conner probably didn’t want to spend all of dinner talking about work.

“Sorry you couldn’t make it to Metropolis for the holiday, Conner.” Dick commented, probably trying to steer the conversation in a more innocuous direction.

Conner shook his head, “Family all went back to Smallville this year. Metropolis probably would have been doable.”

Tim frowned. That probably felt like more of a loss for Conner, who had admitted to feeling more at home in Smallville than he did in Metropolis. He also almost certainly didn’t want to talk about it.

“We probably should have invited Bart as well.” Tim observed. It was a rather blatant move to change the subject, but it was also a sincere thought he’d had that morning. “His family isn’t around here either.”

Conner chuckled, “I don’t think Bart would enjoy sitting down long enough to have a multi-course meal. Trust me, he’s perfectly happy alone with some Chinese food tonight.”

“I would have been happier alone with Chinese food than sitting here,” Damian complained bluntly.

Bruce gave Damian  _ the look _ , but responded to Conner instead, “I’ll make sure Alfred packages up something to take home for both of you.”

Conner said his thanks and the conversation progressed from there, no longer hyper focused on him. It was a small miracle, in Tim’s estimation. Jason still got in a few more jabs over the course of the meal, but Conner would walk away from this one in tact.

After dinner they moved out of the dining room, and Conner quickly excused himself to use the restroom. Tim followed shortly after him, both worried that he might still be feeling overwhelmed and that he might get lost, which was not hard to do if you were unfamiliar with the manor.

Tim didn’t find Conner, but Conner seemed to find him. He could only assume it was Conner at least, since he found himself suddenly pressed up against the wall of the corridor, and a pair of lips pressed up against his.

Reluctantly, Tim pushed Conner away, “You are setting us up to get interrupted again and this time it is  _ definitely  _ not worth it.”

Conner pouted, but relented with a shrug of his shoulders, “You’re probably right, I think your brother Jason would actually murder me if he caught us.”

“Honestly, Jason is the least of my worries.” Jason would never stop harassing Tim about it, but Jason was always going to be harassing Tim about  _ something _ . At least he would probably leave Conner alone. Tim didn’t even want to think about Bruce’s reaction. And Dick may be the reasonable one, but he still had a fierce protective older brother streak. For Dick, knowing intuitively that Conner and Tim had an intimate relationship and finding Conner pinning Tim to the wall would be two very different things. And Damian would just turn around to go tell both Bruce and Dick.

Yeah, in this scenario, Tim would take Jason every single time. That was a first.

“Really? ‘Cause it seemed like he really had it in for me at dinner.”

Tim sighed. The truth was Jason’s attitude toward Conner, going all the way back to the draft before they’d ever met, had nothing to do with Conner. It probably had very little to even do with Tim. He just wasn’t sure how to explain that without invading Jason’s privacy. 

“Remember when you asked me why I quit gymnastics? And if I regretted it?”

Conner nodded.

“Jason used to play hockey, and he was very good. Then something happened and he had to quit. For him it’s a very big regret. I think he’s just feeling kind of bitter, so try not to take it too personally.”

Conner considered his words for a long time before he said anything, frowning. “Wow. . . that’s heavy. I don’t even know what I would do.”

Tim nodded, “I wouldn’t mention it or act sorry for him, though. That would definitely make him worse.”

“Your family sure is intense,” Conner said, letting out a deep breath, “I don’t know how you keep up with it all every day.”

“You get used to it after a while.”

“It seems nice. They’re a lot. But I like it.”

Tim smiled, “I’m glad.”

Conner’s smile turned sheepish, and he rubbed at the back of his neck, “Anyway, I think I need help finding your bathroom. This place is a maze.”

Tim shook his head and led the way.

 

* * *

December took a bad turn for Conner. Gotham were still holding their own as a team, but he hit a slump. Suddenly he had a ten game streak in which he hadn’t scored a single point. The media was eviscerating him. 

“Kent looks sloppy tonight.” Jason criticized as they were watching the most recent game. It was an away game in Carolina, so he, Dick, and Tim were all watching the game together at Wayne Manor.

“He seems like he’s getting in his own head.” Dick added. His words were more neutral than Jason’s, but he assessment was the same; Conner was not playing well. 

His line was on the ice, and was making an offensive push. Bart Allen had the puck and, as quick and deft on his skates as ever, carried it into the offensive zone. Then the whistle blew and play stopped.

“What happened?” Tim asked, bemused. He hadn’t noticed any infractions, but he still wasn’t nearly as skillful at following plays as his brothers.

“Your  _ boyfriend  _ was offsides is what happened,” Jason complained irritably.

Offsides, Tim had learned, meant a player had entered the other team’s zone on the ice before the puck, which was not allowed. It was a silly mistake.

There was a face off in the neutral zone, and Carolina won. They carried the puck back to Gotham’s end of the ice. The center took a shot, which Gotham’s goalie blocked, but the rebound was picked back up by the Carolina right wing. He faked a shot, then attempted to pass back to one of his defensemen. The pass failed to connect, however, because he was checked by Conner, or more accurately by the stick that Conner was holding out in front of him. The whistle blew again.

“Un- _fucking_ -believable.” Jason groaned.

That had been an actual infraction. By hitting the player with his stick instead of his body Conner had committed a cross-check. He was going to the penalty box.

Before play resumed, the network showed a close up of Conner sitting in the penalty box. He looked incredibly frustrated, and was shaking his head. He knew he’d made a stupid play. Of course, the frustration was likely what was causing Conner to play so poorly in the first place. It’s what Dick meant by getting in his own head. 

Carolina scored on the power play. It ended up being the game winning goal.

The next game was a home game, and when Tim entered the box Bruce quickly pulled him off to the side.

“I wanted to make sure you got the heads up, but we’ve had a player come off of injured reserve, and as a result Conner Kent is a healthy scratch tonight.”

Tim did not know what being a healthy scratch meant. He didn’t have to ask, though, because before he had the chance Conner stepped into the private box, wearing his shirt and tie.

It wasn’t hard to read between the lines. Between Bruce feeling the need to warn him about the situation, and Conner being up here not dressed for the game while the rest of the team was already on the ice doing their warmup skate, it was obvious what had happened. Conner was out of the game for the night. And chances are, that decision was not made just because there was an extra player in the line up. It was a consequence of the fact that he wasn’t playing well recently.

Conner comported himself well, for someone who had been worse than benched. Tim knew him well enough by now to see how his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, but to the average observer he would never have let on that he was upset. He talked casually with Tim’s family, with other members of the management team, and he watched the game. It was interesting to see Conner  _ watching  _ hockey for a change. He was almost as intense as when he played, and when Gotham pulled out a win he celebrated just as fiercely as if he had been a part of their victory.

Even so, when Tim received a text messaged the next afternoon that said  _ u should come over _ , he felt a sense of urgency about doing so. 

Conner let Tim into his apartment and then promptly sprawled himself out on the couch forlornly. His body language and facial expression told Tim pretty much everything he needed to know about how he was feeling. But Conner was probably going to burst if he didn’t have the chance to talk honestly about it, so Tim asked anyway.

“How was practice today?”

“Great, until the end when they told me I was scratched for tomorrow night’s game  _ again _ ,” Conner groaned, “Don’t get me wrong--last night, I totally got it. I played like crap, and I deserved to get scratched. But I figured, point taken, you know? I didn’t think I’d still be out of the lineup.”

Conner paused, seemed to remember himself just long enough to realize he was being rude, and sat up so there was room for Tim to join him on the couch. Tim did, sitting close and quickly bumping their shoulders together. But he could tell that Conner still had something more to say, so he didn’t say anything just yet, leaving Conner the opportunity to continue.

“It’s just, this isn’t about teaching me a lesson. It’s about there being an extra player in the lineup, and them thinking I’m the spare that doesn’t really fit on the team.”

“Come on, you can’t think about it like that. And they’re bound to change things up again eventually, so--”

Conner cut him off, “Eventually is exactly the problem. After tomorrow night we’re going on a six game road trip. And they’re not going to want to cart me all over the west coast just for me to not play at all. Which means I’m almost definitely getting reassigned to the minors.”

Tim frowned. He could certainly see why that would be disappointing for Conner, but he could see the bright side as well. “Maybe that’s better? At least you’ll be playing.”

“Yeah,  _ in Happy Harbor, Rhode Island _ ,” Conner grimaced, “I know I said I was happy to play, no matter where I was, but. . .”

Conner didn’t finish his sentence. He just trailed off, looking into Tim’s eyes as he did so. His gaze was penetrating and a little sad. But what? But he didn’t want to leave Tim? That seemed to be the implication, but Tim didn’t want to be too presumptuous.

It was a factor he hadn’t considered before Conner brought it up. Sure, Conner already spent a lot of time traveling while playing for Gotham, but he always came back after a few days. Reassignment meant relocating. And while Gotham’s AHL affiliate was at least not on the other side of the country, Rhode Island wasn’t exactly close either. 

“Well, it is winter break,” Tim began thoughtfully. He wanted to ease Conner’s concerns, but the idea of being separated didn’t sit well with him either, “I won’t have classes for a few weeks, so if you do get reassigned I could come with you, at least until you are settled in?”

Conner appeared to be rendered speechless by the suggestion. He was still looking at Tim with a piercing gaze, now more shocked than sad. Was it because Tim was right and Conner was feeling grateful, or had Tim misinterpreted why Conner was upset and now Conner was feeling awkward and unsure how to respond? As usual, Tim couldn’t help but second guess himself.

“I mean. Only if that’s what you wanted. Obviously.”

“You would seriously do that?” Conner's tone when he spoke left Tim feeling much more confident that he had interpreted correctly. That was gratitude.

“Of course. It would only be temporary, since I just have the few weeks off. But who knows, maybe you’d be back in Gotham by then. And if not, then I know we’ll figure it out.”

Conner looked relieved, like he’d finally been allowed to let out a breath he’d been holding. He didn’t say anything, just leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, smiling softly. Tim got the message.

* * *

Tim had been prepared to figure things out with Conner, just as he’d promised, but it turned out they didn’t have to. Conner was still scratched in the final game before the road trip, and still watched the game from the private box with them. But during the game the second line right wing took a bad fall and had to leave the ice. He was assessed with a lower body injury and would be out for at least a week, leaving him unable to travel with the team. Whether the coaches had intended it or not, Conner was back in the line up.

It still meant that he was leaving, of course, but now he would be coming back.

Conner was also back to looking like himself on the ice again. Maybe getting cut had served as a wake up call, or maybe he was less anxious about the possibility of getting reassigned; whatever had caused the change didn’t seem significant. Gotham lost the first game of the road trip, but Conner managed to score a goal, finally bringing an end to his drought.

The second game was in Star City. At first, the game did not seem to be going in Gotham’s favor. Star City had led 2-0 by the end of the first, both goals scored by the infamous Roy Harper. He’d been skating around the Gotham defense like they weren’t even there.

But the Blades made a huge push and managed to turn it around. Now they were tied going into the third.

As Tim had observed tended to be the case in these back and forth games, things had gotten tense. Play had gotten extra physical, and players were shoving and barking at each other after whistles.

A Star City player’s stick got caught up in the Gotham center’s skates, and he hit the ice, losing control of the puck. No tripping penalty was called. The Gotham bench exploded with fury. Gotham’s left wing skated right over to the player who had tripped his center, squared up, and threw a punch before the other guy had a chance to even see it coming.

A proper fight broke out, but it didn’t last long. Within half a minute the Gotham player had sent the Star City player toppling and was on top of him on the ice. The referee quickly broke them up after that.

Both players went to the penalty box. The referee skated over to the Gotham bench, spoke to the coach, and came away with Bart Allen following behind him. Bart also entered the penalty box, which was curious. Tim couldn’t imagine what Bart had been assigned a penalty for; he hadn’t even been on the ice.

“Why is Bart Allen in the penalty box?”

“Gotham probably got an instigator on that fight,” Dick explained, “The player can’t serve the fighting major and the minor penalty at the same time, so the coach has to select someone else to serve the instigator.”

“It’s bullshit,” Jason complained, “They tripped our guy, and now we’re going on the penalty kill.”

It was going to be a huge two minutes of play. If Star City managed to score they took the lead back, but if Gotham could successfully kill off the penalty momentum was sure to switch in their favor. Fortunately, this had remained a consistent strength of the team all year.

But Star City had a strong power play as well. They managed to keep play in the Gotham zone for over a minute. Gotham was blocking shots but couldn’t quite manage to gain control of the puck. A shot from Star City beat the goaltender, but blessedly bounced of a goal post and didn’t enter the net. Finally, a Blades player was able to catch the rebound and clear the puck all the way to the other end of the ice.

Conner didn’t have a chance to change out for another player before Star City was carrying the puck back into Gotham’s end of the ice. There were only about fifteen seconds left on the instigator penalty, he’d played all of it, and he had to be exhausted, but when Star City took a shot and he caught the rebound he still played the puck and carried it into the neutral zone instead of clearing it.

It was the right play. The penalty ended and Bart Allen exited the box while Conner still had possession of the puck. He was wide open and behind both Star City defensemen. Conner passed Bart the puck and he took off down the ice. The other team’s defense tried to catch him, but Bart was too fast a skater and had too much of a head start. He was one-on-one against the goaltender. He shot high. He scored. 

Conner practically tackled Bart, followed quickly by the rest of the Blades on the ice. From their couch Dick, Jason, and Tim all cheered.

“That’s why you put Bart Allen in the penalty box,” Jason asserted.

For the first time in the game Gotham took the lead, and they held it. Bart’s was the game winning goal.

Gotham was on fire for the rest of their road trip, and Conner along with them. They swept the rest of the games. Conner and Bart’s line had at least a point in every game. 

The victories were thrilling, but after over two weeks away, they were nothing compared to finally seeing Conner again. When they reunited at the airport Conner didn’t just hug Tim, he lifted him right up off the ground and into his arms. They didn’t care who was taking their picture as they kissed.

* * *

Gotham had settled into an Eastern Conference wild card spot, meaning that if they could keep things up for the last two months or so of the regular season, they could be going to the playoffs. Fans and analysts alike seemed to agree they would do just that,  and going into March they were holding on to their playoff spot, looking as strong as ever.

Early in March Gotham had back-to-back games in Metropolis. With a day or two without games before and after each of those, Conner was going to be spending almost a week in Metropolis, which meant he would be getting some family time. Tim was a little surprised when he was invited to join him. 

Tim wasn’t particularly worried about meeting Conner’s family. For one thing he already knew Clark, and knew him to be a nice guy. For another, he had the impression that his family’s opinion of Tim wouldn’t impact Conner all that much. Compared to Conner putting up with Tim’s crazy family, spending some time with Clark and Conner’s cute little brother Jon was sure to be a pleasant experience.

Conner had to ride the bus to Metropolis with the rest of the team, so they were meeting each other there. Tim walked into the lobby of the hotel and found Conner waiting for him as expected. What wasn’t expected was the disgruntled look on his face.

“So as much as I assured him that we were perfectly fine and already had a hotel room and everything,” Conner explained before Tim had a chance to ask, “Dad insisted that we could stay with them. He was clearly not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, and some battles are just not worth fighting with him. I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s fine with me as long as it’s fine with you.” Tim reassured.

Conner’s expression suggested he wasn’t so much fine with the change as he was resigned to it, but he just sighed and said, “Let’s get going then.”

The Kent’s lived in a very nice condo in the heart of Metropolis. The whole family was still at work or school respectively when they arrived, but Conner still had his key. He let them in and was immediately tackled by a large, white streak.

Conner hit his knees, and Tim had an instant of panic before he realized Conner was laughing. Wrapped in Conner’s arms, wriggling its entire body and frantically licking at his face was a big, white dog.

Released from Conner’s grip, the dog rolled over onto his back on the floor. Conner was still on his knees, scratching the dog’s belly, cooing and rambling baby talk and other nonsense at it. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten Tim was even there, but the whole scene was so adorable Tim wasn’t inclined to remind him.

“This is Krypto,” Conner offered once he finally stood up and looked at Tim again, “He’s the best dog ever.”

“Damian would probably disagree,” Tim replied. For all that he was a little jerk when interacting with most people, Damian had a big soft spot when it came to animals, particularly their family dog, Ace. Tim didn’t have a problem with dogs, but he had never been one for pets; they’d been a non-option with his parents, and the idea had never really grown on him.

Krypto seemed to notice the new person in his house, and tentatively sniffed at Tim’s hand. When his tail wagged lightly, Tim gave him a light pat on the top of his head. Krypto’s tail wagged harder, but then he was quickly back to Conner, who he had clearly missed.

Conner smiled and gave Krypto another good scratch under his chin before pointing his thumb down the hall, “C’mon, we’re staying in my room; you can put your stuff down.”

The room didn’t look like it had changed much since Conner was in high school. The bookshelf was piled with video games and hockey magazines, and he had posters covering the walls. One in particular caught Tim’s attention, featuring a brunette young woman wearing a cheerleader uniform and brandishing a silver dagger.

“Really?  _ Wendy the Werewolf Stalker _ ?” He asked dubiously and he dropped his bag onto the floor.

Conner narrowed his eyes, “Hey, I know you’re not dissing my girl Wendy.”

“It’s a bit too corny for my tastes.”

Conner huffed, “It is a testament to how much I like you that this is not a deal breaker.”

Tim raised an indignant eyebrow, but could also feel a faint blush tinting his cheeks from the candid admission of Conner’s feelings. Fortunately he was saved from figuring out which of these conflicting emotions to react with by the sound of the front door opening.

“Conner? Are you here?”

It was Clark’s voice. Conner plastered on a smile and headed back to the main living area of the condo. Tim gave his shoulder a light squeeze and followed behind him.

Clark had Jon with him as well. Backpack still on, when Jon saw Conner he flung himself around his brother’s waist in a tight bear hug. Conner’s smile turned genuine; he scooped Jon up into the air, laughing as the smaller boy shrieked happily, ruffling his hair once he put him back down. Conner and Clark shared a warm but distinctly less animated hug.

Krypto took a moment to greet and receive affection from both Jon and Clark, but then was right back to tailing Conner. It was easy to see who his favorite person was. It was the same way with Ace and Damian.

Tim watched the whole exchange with a soft expression and a warm heart. Clark came over and greeted him with a firm handshake. Jon, who he was fairly sure he hadn’t been formally introduced to yet, ran over and gave him a hug as well.

“Lois will be home a little later,” Clark explained, turning his attention back to Conner, “She’s bringing Chinese food.”

Dinner with the Kent’s was a very different experience than dinner at the manor. They sat together around a table that was probably a little too small for five people. Everyone was talking animatedly and haphazardly passing around cartons of Chinese food. On more than one occasion Clark had to be quick to stop one of the cartons from toppling over and spilling its contents at the hands of Jon’s overzealous movements. At one point Conner snuck a chicken finger under the table for Krypto, who was obviously expecting such a handout as he’d been sitting with his head in Conner’s lap and looking up at him with pleading eyes. Clark raised an eyebrow in Conner’s direction, but otherwise did not call attention to the indiscretion.

Tim wasn’t participating in the conversation much, a little too overwhelmed, but it was a pleasant sort of chaos.

Clark was not the type to let him sit back silently forever, though. Once he noticed how quiet Tim was being he drew him right into the conversation. “I got four tickets to each of the games this week, Tim, so you are more than welcome to join us.”

“Oh, yeah. Actually, um, about that. . .” The truth was, Bruce had also gotten them four tickets to each of the games, despite Tim’s protests. He didn’t want to look like he was trying to one up Conner’s family with the expensive tickets. He’d thought about not even mentioning he had them, but Bruce would be sure to want an explanation as to why they hadn’t been used if he did. Tim had still felt too awkward to bring it up. At least Clark had saved him the trouble, although now he still wasn’t sure what to say.

But then Clark swooped in and saved him again. He gave Tim a knowing smile, “Bruce sent you with tickets, didn’t he?”

“He did.” Tim admitted sheepishly.

“Well, I’m not about to complain. They’re probably much better seats than I have.”

“They are excellent seats.” Tim agreed. It still made him uncomfortable, but he was glad to see Clark wasn’t offended.

“Sold,” Clark replied cheerily, then he turned to Lois, “Bibbo will buy the extra tickets off of me. Sounds like a win-win, if you ask me.”

Clark began to discuss the upcoming games with Conner, but Lois quickly cut him off, “Uh uh, no talking business at the dinner table.” Both her tone and expression suggested she’d been on the receiving end of that line from Clark plenty of times before and was happy to throw it lovingly back in his face. Clark relented sheepishly and dropped the hockey talk.

After dinner Clark suggested they all play a board game together, but upon seeing Conner’s absolute deadpan expression he amended to watching a movie. In a move almost certainly meant to needle Tim, Conner suggested  _ Wendy the Werewolf Stalker _ . Tim didn’t even need to state his opinion on the subject, however, as Jon immediately protested, complaining that Conner had already made him watch it too many times. Conner reluctantly conceded with the admission that the show was better than the movie anyway. Because Clark was probably the cheesiest person ever, they settled on  _ The Mighty Ducks  _ instead.

It was a very nice evening, but as he and Conner retreated into the bedroom once the movie was over Tim was glad to finally have some alone time and decompress.

“Your dad has a friend named Bibbo,” Tim observed with a chuckle as Conner entered the room and shut the door behind them.

“My dad has a lot of weird friends,” Conner admitted, grinning and nudging Tim lightly in the ribs with his elbow, “Not least of all being Bruce Wayne.”

“Touché.” 

Conner slipped into a pair of sweatpants and out of his t-shirt. Tim busied himself with rummaging through his bag for his own pajamas. He was not allowed to focus on Conner’s perfect abs for even second, not when Clark and Lois were about to go to bed in the room right next door. That could only end badly. 

Tim quickly changed and then even more quickly moved to turn off the lights. As he climbed into bed Conner was grinning smugly at him, like he knew exactly what Tim was thinking and was getting far too much satisfaction out of it, the jerk. The bed was really not made for two people so they had no choice but to lay close, not that Tim was going to complain about it. Tim settled in partially on top of Conner, using his chest as a pillow. Conner gently stroked his hair.

“I know this wasn’t the plan, but I’m glad we came here instead. I had a good time tonight.”

Conner sighed, “Me too. Sometimes it’s easy to forget I don’t really belong here.”

Tim frowned. He knew Conner felt that way about his family—about himself—but it was still sad to hear him say it so bluntly. Especially after what he’d seen tonight. “That’s not true. Of course you belong, Conner.”

“Not really. It’s nothing like your family. You guys aren’t even related, but you’re still all so close to each other.”

That’s because when you have literally no one else in the world growing close is a survival skill, Tim thought. But his intention wasn’t to make Conner feel guilty on top of everything else he was already dealing with, so he kept his thoughts to himself. 

“My family is different than yours. And trust me, it’s not always as great as you make it sound. Damian threatens to kill me on a weekly basis, and Jason hoards a collection of embarrassing photos of me for blackmailing purposes. . .which I probably should not have just told you about.”

That got Conner to crack a smile again, but he still didn’t say anything. 

“Listen, I don’t blame you for having complicated feelings about Clark. But please don’t feel like you’re forcefully inserting yourself into your own family. Because tonight it was obvious to see that they’ve already made a place for you.”

Conner nodded thoughtfully, maybe not quite ready to accept Tim’s words yet, but hearing them nonetheless. “Yeah. Thank you, Tim.”

Very rarely had Tim ever spent the night with Conner, preferring to leave late than deal with the flack he would get from his brothers for not returning home until morning. It was nice, though, and he found he slept very soundly curled up against Conner’s large, firm body.

The next morning Conner had to get up early to go to practice, so Tim woke up alone, though he found the rest of the Kent’s hadn’t left for the day yet when he shuffled out of the bedroom. Tim did not do mornings, unlike Conner who he had discovered was a disgustingly cheerful morning person. Between helping out with farm chores in Smallville and hockey practice, Conner said, he was used to getting up before the sun, so what felt early to Tim was like sleeping in for him. This was obviously a trait that he had inherited from Clark, who smile brightly at Tim as he offered him a cup of coffee and launch into a long explanation of where to find the wifi password and access other aspects of their home while they were gone that Tim was not remotely ready to comprehend. 

“Stop torturing the boy and let him drink his coffee, Clark.” Lois said before long. She too looked like she preferred not to be spoken to in the morning until after several doses of caffeine. Jon was sitting at the kitchen table, already dressed in his school uniform, looking semi-catatonic as he ate a bowl of cereal. These were his people. Tim nodded at Lois in solidarity as he took a sip of his coffee.

They were all off for the day shortly thereafter, leaving Tim alone with Krypto. His struggle to get comfortable in other people’s homes only increased when said other people were not there, he quickly found. But he was able to sit on his laptop and get some schoolwork done, once he’d found the wifi password Clark had already tried to point out for him.

Conner came home in time for lunch and a very brief afternoon together before he had to head right back to the arena, expected to arrive two hours ahead of the game. Tim was alone again for a short while until it was time to head to the game with the Kents.

Tim’s black and yellow Gotham jersey got him a few dirty looks in the sea of Metropolis’ blue and red. It had actually also been a gift from Bruce, along with the tickets to the games. Watching all of the games in Gotham from management’s private box meant dressing up for games, so Tim hadn’t had much cause to own any Gotham gear. Bruce said he thought it might come in handy. Of course, it was a jersey featuring Conner’s name and number; Conner didn’t even know he had it yet.

He would find out soon, though, as he was sure to see them in the seats they had, which were as excellent as promised. Tim and the Kent’s were in the front row, just in front of one of the goals on the right. 

And Conner did spot them during the warmup skate. Any chance he might have had to miss them was eliminated by Jon, who jumped up and down waving his arms to get Conner’s attention as he skated by.

Conner skated up and gave Jon and air high five through the glass. He smiled at Tim and spotted the new jersey. He couldn’t see the back of it of course, but he could definitely see the 93 patch on each arm. That earned Tim an eyebrow waggle as Conner skated away.

A few seconds later Tim received a snapchat from Dick. It was footage of the entire exchange recorded from the television; it had been caught on close up by Gotham’s broadcaster. Tim groaned.

The Metropolis crews had obviously also noticed Tim’s presence, and he ended up on the jumbotron at least half a dozen times at both games. He offered a smile and a wave the first time it happened and then proceeded to pretend he didn’t notice the rest. Every time Gotham’s commentators mentioned him in between plays one of his brothers would send him a video of it, usually with a laughing emoji plastered on top. Suddenly Bruce’s seats didn’t feel quite as excellent as they had before.

Gotham and Metropolis split the games, a win and a loss each. At the end of the week, when it was finally time to return to Gotham, Conner admitted he was much more sad to be leaving his family than he expected to be.

But he wasn’t going to have to wait long before spending so more time in Metropolis, as it turned out. Gotham finished out the last few weeks of the season strong, holding onto to their wild card spot. After a seven year drought, they would finally be going to playoffs. Their first round was against the top seed in the Metropolitan Division, and their division rivals: Metropolis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it matters a bit in this chapter, as usual Gotham is in New Jersey and Metropolis is in New York. I imagine in this universe the Blades exist in place of the New Jersey Devils, Metropolis in place of the New York Rangers, and Star City in place of the Anaheim Ducks. 
> 
> The last chapter will probably be much shorter, more of an epilogue to wrap things up. Hopefully coming your way soon. Thanks for reading!


	4. Postseason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A pretty significant head injury is sustained in this chapter. Figure it is worth the warning just in case.

The Gotham hockey community was over the moon. The first press of Gotham merchandise featuring the Stanley Cup playoffs logo sold out in a day, and they had to rush production on a second shipment. Tickets to the first two games in Gotham sold out in minutes. The Blades were the front page story of the Gotham Gazette sports section. It had been close to a decade since the team had made a showing in the postseason, and the fans were ready for it.

Hockey playoff rounds required that teams prevail in a best of seven series against their opponent, so it was a race to four wins. Because they were the higher seed in the regular season rankings, Metropolis had earned home-ice advantage. This meant that if an odd number of games were to be played in the series the extra game would take place in Metropolis. It also meant the first two games in the series would take place there.

Bruce had apparently decided that watching playoff games from the manor was insufficient. He purchased a private box for the family at both of the first two games in Metropolis.

He invited the Kent’s to join them as well. On the first night, when Clark Kent entered the box wearing a Gotham t-shirt, Bruce gave him an amused, somewhat smug grin.

Clark shrugged his shoulders, “I can go back to rooting for Metropolis when they’re not playing against my son.”

“Might as well put away all of your Metropolis colors until fall, then,” Jason taunted, “Because Gotham’s gunna clean up.”

Gotham did not clean up in the first game. In fact, The Mammoths destroyed them 4-0. Metropolis ended up taking the second game as well, although it at least was closer, a 2-1 finish. It had been a close game throughout, and looked like it was going to go into overtime until they scored the second goal with just a minute and a half left in the game. Tim couldn’t speak for the players, but that had felt almost more demoralizing than the blowout in the previous game.

Tim hadn’t quite been prepared for what the playoffs had in store. The intensity level of both the players and the fans had increased tenfold, something he wouldn’t have even imagined possible. The stakes of every game were so high, every minute so crucial, it kept him on the edge of his seat.

It also kept Conner all the busier than he had been before, and despite being in metropolis as well Tim hadn’t seen him at all. Fortunately, the third game of the series had them back to Gotham, which left the practice schedule more flexible.

After going about four days without seeing Conner, Tim’s surprise upon seeing his face was immediate, “What is happening?”

“Playoff beard,” Conner said proudly.

“There’s no way that’s actually a thing.” 

“Oh, it’s a thing,” Conner rebutted, still sounding all too pleased with himself, but then his face quickly fell, “Do you hate it?” 

Tim had definitely been caught off guard by the change. After less than a week Conner didn’t so much have a beard as he was looking a bit scruffier than normal. Tim had to admit he didn’t hate it. Honestly, he didn’t think Conner could stop looking handsome if he tried. Besides, even if he did hate it, Conner’s face would probably have prevented him from admitting it. His sad puppy dog eyes were impressive.

“Nah. It’s a surprise, but I think I like it. Makes you look rugged.”

It made Conner’s kisses much scratchier as well, but Tim supposed he could learn to live with that.

The third game of the series did go into over time. This was when Tim realized he had still been underestimating the intensity of the playoffs. Over time lasted for seventeen minutes, the most nerve wracking seventeen minutes of Tim’s life. Every second could be the last; Tim could sense his whole family on the edge of their seats. Each time there was a shot on goal he held his breath. Finally, Gotham scores and pulled their first win of the series.

The Mammoths answered with another win in game four. They led the series 3-1. Gotham wasn’t out of the running yet, but they would have to win three in a row to stay in it. 

It was impressive to see how well the players handled the pressure. Even facing elimination, Conner expressed optimism in their chances. They had confidence in each other, and were ready to play like they couldn’t afford to lose. 

They were back to Metropolis for game five. Clark joined Tim’s family for the game again. He was as friendly as ever, although the energy in their private box was much more tense than it had been for the first two games. 

The Blades managed to pull it off. They forced a game six and brought the series back to Gotham.

Game six began with an early lead for Gotham, with two unanswered goals in the first ten minutes. Even as the Mammoths managed to score the Blades held on to their lead, and a little over halfway through the second period the score was 4-2.

Conner’s line was on the ice, and in the offensive zone. The puck was lose, and Conner went to the corner to retrieve it. A player from Metropolis was after it as well, but Conner beat him there. He came up on Conner and hit him hard, right on his number 93. Conner’s head slammed into the boards, and he hit the ice. The whistle blew. 

Conner did not get up.

Vaguely, Tim heard someone say, “Oh shit, he’s hurt.” In spite of the language he thought it might be Dick, but it was hard to say; it was more like a distant echo than someone speaking right next to him. The whole box felt very far away as he watched Conner struggle to get off the ice.

Conner was on his knees, but that was as far as he’d gotten. He was holding his head in both of his hands. The trainer rushed over from the bench and crouched down to assess him. Shortly the trainer was helping Conner to his feet and slowly leading him off the ice into the the tunnel.

The players on both benches were knocking their sticks against the boards, a sign of solidarity, as he walked off. Tim was still staring after him down the tunnel even after he was out of sight, unable to shake himself. It felt hard to breath. He wasn’t broken from his trance until Dick came to stand in front of him, placing himself in his line of sight.

“Timmy, take a deep breath,” Dick said, looking at him sadly, “You’re on the screen.”

Tim looked behind Dick to see a view now mostly of Dick’s back on the jumbotron. He hadn’t just stood there to get Tim’s attention, apparently. They’d been trying to record his reaction to Conner getting injured and Dick was blocking them.

“That’s fucked up,” Jason grumbled beside them. Bruce looked like he agreed with the sentiment, if not the language.

“Come on,” Dick continued, offering a small smile, “I’m sure Conner’s fine, but since he hit his head he’ll have to go through concussion protocol. He’ll probably get transported, depending on how serious it is. Let’s go downstairs and check on him first.”

“Yeah, okay,” Tim agreed, taking the deep breath Dick had suggested and coming back to himself.

Conner was sitting with a couple of paramedics when Tim arrived, suggesting that Dick was correct about him being transported. He looked dazed, and when his eyes fell on Tim it took him a few seconds to process before he smiled. At least he made a valiant attempt at smiling; it was obvious he was still hurting.

As gingerly as possible, Tim brushed some hair away from Conner’s forehead, “Hey. You gave me a pretty big scare out there.”

“Yeah, uh,” Conner began. He wasn’t quite making eye contact with Tim, more like he was looking through him than looking at him, and he sounded tired, “pretty scary.”

It didn’t seem like Conner really even knew what had happened. Tim wasn’t a doctor, but it was pretty obvious that Conner did actually have a concussion.

Dick had been talking to the paramedics while Tim talked to Conner. He came to stand beside Tim. “They’re going to take him to Gotham General. We’ll go and meet him there, sound good?”

Tim nodded. He didn’t have words to express how grateful he was for his brother in this moment. If not for Dick he would probably still be upstairs having a silent meltdown. Dick even headed toward the exit in an obvious effort to give Tim and Conner another moment to themselves before they left. It was a nice gesture, although the paramedics were already getting Conner ready to move him into the ambulance anyway.

“We’ll be right behind you. So I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Conner replied. Tim wasn’t confident how much of the situation he was really comprehending, but this at least he seemed to understand, if his tiny, grateful smile was anything to go by. “Thanks, Tim. Love you.”

Tim froze, eyes wide. It was probably for the best that he was saved from responding by the paramedics lifting Conner up and into the ambulance. After everything else that had happened in the last half an hour or so, he was not ready to formulate a coherent response to  _ that _ confession.

“You ready, little bro?” Dick had come to a stop, apparently having noticed that Tim still wasn’t following him. Shocked out of his trance by his brother once again, Tim quickly caught up to him.

In the car Tim pressed his head against the window, staring out as the city passed by, unable to get the words out of his head.

Conner loved him.

_ Maybe _ , the eternally doubtful part of his mind supplied. According to the paramedics Conner hadn’t been able to identify the date, the current president of the United States, or even his own middle name. He hadn’t really known what had happened to him, so it wasn’t hard to assume he hadn’t known what he was saying, either.

But the chances that Conner would accidentally say ‘I love you,’ that  _ Tim _ would be the person he accidentally said it to, were pretty slim, right?

And if he did actually mean it, then what? Did Tim return his feelings? The practical part of him felt it was too soon to know such a thing, and the anxious part of him didn’t care to think about it much either. Given the emotional turmoil the evening had presented, now was likely not the best time regardless.

“Try not to worry too much, Tim,” Dick spoke, misinterpreting his silence, “A concussion is no small thing, but they’re catching it early and Conner’s young. He’ll bounce back in no time.”

“He told me he loved me just now,” Tim replied abruptly. It was tangential to everything Dick had said, but he was sure he would burst if he didn’t talk about it.

Dick laughed lightly, “Well, yeah. I’m sure he was hurting, and feeling nervous--it probably meant a lot knowing you were there for him. Seems like a pretty normal time for him to be feeling the love.”

Tim shook his head, “No, I mean he just told me he loved me for the first time ever.”

Dick did not respond right away. Before he did he let out a long whistles, “All right, that was admittedly interesting timing for him to choose to do that.”

“I don’t know if he meant to say it. I don’t even know if he  _ meant _ it.”

“Oh I’m sure he meant it,” Dick answered confidently, but he looked almost sad, “But. . . Conner was really confused, and probably didn’t realize exactly what he was saying. I think the best thing is to wait until he’s feeling more like himself and talk to him about it. So try not to drive yourself crazy thinking about it in the meantime, okay?”

Tim pressed his face back into the cool glass of the window, sighing deeply. If only he shared his brother’s ability not to drive himself crazy thinking about things.

Fortunately, once they reached the hospital he didn’t have much time to think about it. He had to make sure that he was focused and listening to the doctor on Conner’s behalf, since he wasn’t entirely confident Conner would remember everything he was told. Conner had already taken a computerized concussion test with the Blades’ team physician which had been compared against a baseline he’d taken at the start of the season. The results had been sufficient to diagnose him with a concussion, unsurprisingly, but they were going to do a CT scan to check for any internal damage.

The doctor had also asked Tim to keep Conner engaged while he was waiting for his testing, as she didn’t want him falling asleep until she knew just how significant his head injury was. This turned out to be harder than expected. By this time Conner was clearly not feeling well; he kept squeezing his eyes shut or holding his head in his hands, and he was struggling to keep up with conversation not so much because he didn’t understand, but because he seemed more focused on his headache than on what Tim was saying. Taking a nap was exactly what he would have preferred to be be doing, and he was getting irritable with Tim for not letting him do so. Tim also had to help him remove his contacts, after he’d had to remind him he was wearing them at all, and that had been an utter nightmare. 

By the time the nurse came back to take Conner for his CT scan, Tim was relieved. He did not have very impressive bedside manner, and Tim was feeling just as irritable as Conner had been acting, except he didn’t have an excuse.

Then, shortly after Conner had left the room, Tim received a phone call from an unknown number. Normally he would just ignore it, but the Metropolis area code clue him in that it was probably important this time. Sure enough, he answered to a very frantic Clark Kent. Apparently when he’d been unable to get ahold of Conner he’d called Bruce, who had given him Tim’s number. Tim assured him everything was fine, calmly explained what the doctor had told him to the best of his ability, and promised they would call as soon as Conner felt up to talking.

It was all exhausting. By the time Conner was back in his bed Tim managed to keep his eyes open just long enough to make sure Conner was all right and asleep himself before passing out in the chair next to the bed.

Tim woke up the next morning with a very stiff neck and a brief moment of panic before he remembered where he was, and why. Not that remembering the circumstances made him feel better.

Conner was still asleep, probably a first in their relationship, and definitely proof that he was not feeling 100%. Tim got to watch him contentedly for a few minutes before he stirred. 

Almost immediately after opening his eyes Conner had squeezed them shut again, throwing his arm over his face for added protection, “Ugh . . .blinds, please.”

Tim got out of his chair and quickly crossed the room to pull down the blinds. Light sensitivity was a common symptom of concussions. “I’m guessing that means you don’t want me to turn the lights on either?”

“Please don’t.” Conner deadpanned. He still didn’t remove his arm.

“Noted,” Tim answered, returning to his chair. “Other than that, how are you feeling?”

That got Conner to move his arm, primarily so he could give Tim the stink eye more effectively. That told Tim pretty much everything he needed to know.

“That good, huh?” Tim chuckled. He certainly didn’t want to make light of Conner’s injury, but Conner would handle the humor better than he would handle being fussed over. Besides, while Tim was hardly expecting Conner to feel good this morning, he was obviously so much  _ better _ than he’d been the night before. He was much more coherent, and even as he whined he seemed much more like himself. It was hard for Tim not to feel positively.

After another moment of wallowing, Conner suddenly sat bolt upright in bed. Tim jumped

“Did we win last night?!” Conner asked desperately.

Tim was bewildered, “Wh-what?”

“The game! Did Gotham win?”

Tim shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean  _ you don’t know _ ?” Now Conner sounded exasperated.

“I just don’t! I wasn’t even thinking about the game, from the second you hit your head. I was too busy worrying about you!”

Conner took a few seconds to look endeared before he started scrambling with his hands across the top of the bedside table, and in his pants pocket.

“What are you doing?” Tim asked, voice laced with concern, as Conner finally retrieved his phone.

“Checking the score, obviously.”

Tim put his hand over Conner’s, forcing it down onto the bed and preventing him from doing just that, “I mean, what are you doing using your phone? You have a concussion--you’re not supposed to look at screens.”

Conner pouted at him, passionately insisting that he needed to know immediately, and that he was perfectly fine, and a few seconds of looking at his phone couldn’t hurt. Tim sighed, “I’ll check for you right now, okay?”

Finally Conner relented, dropping his phone in favor of crossing his arms petulantly in front of his chest, “Fine, I wouldn’t really be able to see it anyway,” he grumbled.

Tim grinned at him, “Maybe we’ll see if Bart can swing by with your glasses later. Depending on how long they plan on keeping you here.”

Conner was just looking at him expectantly, so rather than waiting for a response Tim set about checking the score for last night’s game.

Gotham hadn’t just won, they had destroyed Metropolis 7-2. The Mammoths had been issued a major penalty for the hit on Conner, which meant it lasted for five minutes and didn’t end early even if Gotham scored. The Blades had scored two goals on that power play, and then another in the third period to really put it away. 

Conner made him watch a highlight reel and describe the plays for him in excruciating detail. It was a struggle, since Tim still wasn’t all that good at using hockey jargon effectively. Conner probably got a lot more out of hearing the color commentator from the video than he got out of Tim’s lame attempt, but he wanted to hear it from Tim regardless.

“I have been avenged!” Conner proclaimed proudly, once he was finally satisfied with the rundown he had gotten of the game.

They were visited by the doctor shortly after that. She gave Conner a thorough check up and told them she wanted to keep him here for the day to monitor him, but didn’t anticipate him spending the night.

Conner also received a visit from several of his teammates, which Tim thought was very nice. Bart had blessedly thought to bring Conner a pair of glasses and some clothes without being asked. They talked about the game for a while and wished Conner well, but they weren’t able to stay long as they had to head to Metropolis for the seventh and final game of the playoff series. Conner looked a little sad as they left, and Tim could understand why; whether Gotham moved on to the next round of the playoffs or not, Conner’s season was probably over. He had to be incredibly disappointed.

Since Tim had promised, they called Clark after that, and talked to him and Jon on speakerphone for a little while. Conner hadn’t even gotten out of bed, but by then it was obvious that his busy morning was wearing on him. He looked tired, and was starting to display some of the same tells that had meant his headache was bothering him the night before. Tim steered the conversation to its end as quickly as he could without being rude or making Clark worry too much, and within minutes of getting off the phone Conner was asleep again.

Tim went to the cafeteria to get them something to eat while Conner was napping. When he returned about half an hour later, Conner was sitting back up as a nurse checked on him again. He seemed to have been rejuvenated by his brief rest, and he was very happy to see that Tim had food.

Removed of other people to distract him, Tim’s attention returned to Conner’s elephant of a confession, looming over them in the room. Conner certainly didn’t seem to be having trouble ignoring it, chattering happily as if nothing significant had happened between them. Then again, he might not be ignoring it at all. There was a good chance Conner didn’t even remember saying anything.

Finally, when Tim couldn’t stand it anymore, he said, “So uh, you told me you loved me last night.”

Conner got very quiet. Trying to be casual (and largely failing) he looked over at Tim, as if wanting to gauge exactly what his reaction was before formulating a response. Tim thought he was keeping his expression pretty neutral, but Conner must have liked whatever he saw because he let out a very relieved-sounding sigh and said, “Man, I was going to pretend that was just the concussion talking, but if it’s good I guess I’m glad to have it out in the open.”

So Conner had meant it.  Somehow, that had not been the answer Tim was expecting. Even after having an entire night to think about it, he wasn’t quite ready to process the knowledge that it was in fact real and Conner did in fact love him. Instead he just gaped.

Conner seemed to interpret his silence as a negative reaction. His expression grew panicked, and he immediately began backtracking, “I mean, yeah, that was definitely the concussion talking. I had no idea anything I was saying last night. I don’t even know what we’re talking about.”

“You don’t have to pretend. It’s--I’m not upset.” Tim smiled fondly. He was quite the opposite, actually.  Warmth had settled in the pit of his stomach, spread up his chest. He just didn’t handle big, overwhelming emotions well. “If you were so nervous about my reaction I’m surprised you said anything.”

“Oh no, I definitely blame the fact that I actually said it out loud on my busted brain,” Conner admitted, sounding almost embarrassed with himself. “I didn’t think you’d be upset I just . . . kinda thought you might freak out? I didn’t want to move too fast and scare you away, so I figured I would like, wait and let you take the lead on that one. But uh, cat’s out of the bag, I guess.”

Tim couldn’t exactly blame Conner for being worried he would freak out; after all, he had indeed been freaking out since Conner had spoken the words the night before. It left him feeling guilty, that Conner had felt the need to hide away what should have been a joyful feeling on Tim’s behalf. “For how long?”

“Couple months?” Conner shrugged as if this was honestly not a big deal, but his face betrayed him, “I realized I loved you when you offered to come to Happy Harbor with me.”

Thinking back to that night, even though it really had been months ago, Tim could still remember the way Conner had looked at him; it had been unforgettable. Tim had thought it was just a powerful sense of gratitude that had caused the look of devotion in Conner’s eyes then. Now he wondered how he could have misinterpreted so completely.

The silence between them was heavy. Tim still hadn’t said anything, but even more pressing was the obviousness that he still had not said one very particular thing, “Conner, I--”

“Hey,” Conner cut him off, which was probably for the best as Tim had started that sentence with no idea how he was going to actually finish it. “It’s cool. I don’t want you to feel like you have to. No pressure.”

Tim gave him a small smile and nodded. It was nice to know Conner wasn’t trying to pressure him, even if it didn’t actually alleviate any of the pressure he was feeling in this moment. He wished that it was so easy for him, that he could just identify his feelings in a single moment, admit to them with a shrug of his shoulders as Conner had. He thought of the way Conner’s smile made him smile, of the warmth that spread through his chest when Conner held him, and how it had felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs as he’d watched Conner fall, obviously hurt, to the ice last night. He knew these feelings represented something bigger than themselves, he just wasn’t confident he was ready to give that something a name yet.

He still felt like he couldn’t just leave Conner hanging, “It’s not that I think I  _ don’t _ , I just--”

“I get it,” Conner reassured, “Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”

Tim found himself wondering, not for the first time, what he had done to deserve this incredible person. “Right. Thank you, Conner.”

Conner opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it after a moment of silence, a confused expression crossing his features. “Welp, I just totally forgot what I was going to say. So like, just think of the most romantic thing you can imagine me saying in this moment. ‘Cause that’s definitely what it was.”

Tim laughed. At least Conner could have a sense of humor about his condition.

Conner was discharged later that day with a laundry list of restrictions and orders to seek further medical attention if his symptoms worsened. Bart was already off to Metropolis, and Tim didn’t feel comfortable leaving Conner alone in the apartment so soon after a head injury, so he decided to stay with him. He could hear Jason wolf whistling in the background as he communicated this plan to Bruce over the phone. Tim simply rolled his eyes.

Then again, maybe his brother’s teasing wasn’t entirely misplaced, because Conner collapsed onto his bed, gazed up at Tim with a suggestive gleam in his eye, and said, “So, are you going to nurse me back to health now?” In case his point had not been sufficiently clear, he waggled his eyebrows for further emphasis.

“Really?” Tim asked dubiously, carefully tucking his newfound knowledge about that probable kink away in his mind for future reference.

Actually, Tim thought, there was no time like the present. He got on all fours at the foot of the bed and made his way up Conner’s body in a sultry crawl until they were face-to-face.

After a few minutes of slow, languid making out Conner came up for air, “Ugh, I literally hate myself for the buzzkill I am about to be right now, but we are getting dangerously close to ‘physical exertion’ territory here.”

Tim realized that, of course, as he realized that physical exertion was the primary thing Conner was supposed to be avoiding until his concussion symptoms subsided. But that was exactly the point. Tim smiled coyly, “I suppose you’ll just have to lay back and let me take care of you tonight, then.”

Conner was not able to offer a coherent response, but the noise he made told Tim he was absolutely on board with that plan.

* * *

Conner was able to enjoy about a day of abusing his injured status (“Tim, go get me a drink,  _ please _ , walking all the way to the fridge is too much exercise for my feeble brain to handle.”) before reality set in and he realized just how bored he was going to be not being able to exercise or use devices with screens for the foreseeable future.

It was the hockey game against Metropolis that clued him in. Making the trip to attend the game was hardly a realistic option the day after he’d been discharged from the hospital, which meant watching it on television . . . except Conner  _ couldn’t _ watch it on television. In the end they had to listen to the radio broadcast. That worked fine for Conner, though Tim was lost trying to follow along without a visual. He  _ really _ needed to improve his understanding of hockey jargon.

But it was worth the trouble when, after a nail-biter of a game with only a single goal scored later in the third period, Gotham won the game and the series against Metropolis along with it. That much was easily understood. They both cheered and embraced. Tim’s phone immediately blew up, receiving a slew of text messages and snapchats from his brothers. Tim decided it was worth breaking protocol just long enough to show Conner the video of all of his teammates celebrating together on the ice. Tim could see in his face that he was disappointed not to be there with them, but he couldn’t stop smiling all the same.

Gotham went on to play the Pittsburgh Penguins in the second round of the playoffs. Once again it was the Penguins who had home ice advantage, so once again the first two games were away for Gotham. The split the games, a win and a loss each.

Tim and Conner stayed home and listened to both of the games. It was too difficult to discern whether Conner would be up to making the trip. Most of the time he was so much his normal self it was easy to forget there was even anything wrong. But his concussion could sneak up on him in an instant, and it was obvious when it did; Conner’s headaches were accompanied by some very dark moods. Sometimes all it took was a ten minute power nap in the dark for him to be back to himself again, sometimes the headache would hit and lay him out for the rest of the day. Tim never knew what to expect, and it was painful for him to watch it happen, unable to do anything to help.

When game three brought the action back to Gotham, they decided it was worth trying to attend the game. Conner watched from the box with them. He made an appearance on the jumbotron during an early stoppage of play and received an ovation from the crowd; Tim’s heart swelled. Later, and much more regrettably, they also made an appearance on the kiss cam. Tim buried his face in his hands as Conner planted one cheekily on his forehead. His family erupted behind them; even Bruce arched an amused eyebrow.

Unfortunately, the game was not much less humiliating than Tim’s kiss cam experience. Gotham lost--badly--then lost again in game four. In the end the series came to an end after game 5, with Pittsburgh taking it four games to one. Gotham’s playoff run had come to an end for the year.

It was disappointing, to be sure. But it was still so much further than they had come in so long. Players, fans, and media alike were impressed with the season they had, and optimistic for an even better run next year.

Tim could also find a silver lining of his own.

“So this means you can shave your playoff beard, right?” In the weeks that had passed, Conner’s scruff had grown into a full beard. He looked as handsome as ever, in a rugged sort of way, especially since it hadn’t gotten even a trim in about a month. But Tim just couldn’t get used to it.

Conner sighed at the suggestion, a sound that came out almost more like a whine, but there was laughter in his eyes when he responded, “Yes, this means I can shave the playoff beard.”

Conner grew better every day, and before long he’d been removed of most of his restrictions, such as watching television or using his phone, as long as they didn’t cause him any symptoms. He was able to start light physical activity again as well.

Finally, after a few days completely concussion free, Conner was cleared for non-contact play again by the team physician. After several weeks unable to skate Conner looked thrilled to learn he would finally get back out on the ice, even if it was just to practice.

Mostly that meant conditioning with his trainers, but Conner couldn’t get enough, which is how they found themselves back at the Gotham rink resuming Tim’s ice skating lessons. The hockey season had found them both too busy to come back much, but now that they were both off for the summer and Conner was healthy again they had all the time in the world. 

Conner had been a little rusty at first, not that the average person would have been able to tell. Besides, an hour or two on skates had his legs right back under him again. Tim supposed it was unfair to call himself rusty, as he’d never actually been skilled at skating to begin with, but it took him a while to feel comfortable again as well.

Once he got his balance back and was skating around on his own again, Conner decided to start teaching him some hockey maneuvers.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to learn how to play hockey.” Tim teased.

“I’m not teaching you to play hockey; I’m teaching you to skate like a hockey player.” Conner corrected easily, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Conner proceeded with teaching him how to do a crossover. Tim observed the clear technical skill that went into Conner’s movement and suspected this one was going to take him a bit longer than learning to balance. But watching Conner was the best part. He was a sight to behold with his grace and skill on the ice. More than that, he looked more alive on the ice than anywhere else, and happier, smiling brightly and he skated in small circles, flawlessly displaying his technique.

Then he turned to look at Tim and his smile got somehow even brighter. 

Conner was like sunshine in human form. Tim felt the full weight of his emotions in that moment so suddenly that he was nearly bowled over with it. So it really was that easy.

“Hey, Conner,” The words came out a little hesitantly, belying the confidence Tim felt in his intentions.

Conner came to a stop beside him, worry clear in his features as he searched Tim’s face for a hint of what might be on his mind, “Yeah? Something the matter?”

Tim smiled, and this time he didn’t hesitate, “I love you, too.”

He was knocked off balance when they kissed, but it was okay, because Conner was there to catch him.


End file.
